


Equilibrium: Crusader

by Red Centurion (RedCenturionG)



Series: Equilibrium [1]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Adventure, Citadel Council, Dark, Extremism, F/M, Faith of the Crusader, Galactic liberation, Illium - Freeform, Insanity, Intrigue, Khar'Shan, Religion, Religious Fanaticism, Romance, Sexual Content, Shepardism, Slow Burn, Talimance, Terrorism, The Advocation, The Crusader - Freeform, The Herald - Freeform, Tragedy, omega - Freeform, sanctum - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-01-20 20:52:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 404,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedCenturionG/pseuds/Red%20Centurion
Summary: Shepard just wants to retire and live a happy life with the person he loves: he feels that he's earned that. But the galaxy is not done with him yet, and the new threat on the horizon comes from an unlikely source: Shepard himself.Work was originally published on July 11, 2018.





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the immediate aftermath of the Reaper War, Tali searches desperately for Shepard, unwilling to accept he's gone.

__

_"_ _The people always have some champion whom they set over them and nurse into greatness. … This and no other is the root from which a tyrant springs; when he first appears he is a protector."_ \- Plato.

* * *

_Luna Defense Perimeter, Earth - October 11, 2186 - Two weeks after the Crucible Event._

Space was a curious place. It was like an ocean...filled with possibilities, blanketed with improbabilities, and utterly unfathomable to those inexperienced with exploring it. Some humans called space the 'final frontier'. The turians called it the 'unending void'. The asari's sacred religious texts, now long forgotten or ignored, referred to it as the 'place where the goddess Athame believes we must go'. Regardless of the species, everybody had accepted a universal fact: at some point, they must explore that dark horizon from which their planet lies within. None of them knew what they'd find, and perhaps none of them even knew the other existed.

But none of them could possibly fathom the monsters that waited in the dark space.

A race of sentient starships, known as the Reapers to the prothean and asari cycles, the Dark Song Destroyers to the rachni, the Death's Army to the inusannon, and countless other names by many others throughout galactic history, were once an enemy to be feared. Unknowable. Seemingly inconquerable. In a realm of intelligence far beyond their own. They mastered the stars, shaped them to their will, and waited patiently for 50,000 years before brutally, mercilessly and meticulously obliterating alien civilizations at the apex of their greatness. Even humanity and the many other races it shared the galaxy with, was no exception to the Reapers' foolproof plans for repeated galactic holocausts. But one factor had changed the outcome. One human had managed to rise to the occassion, and defeat an enemy that, for billions of years, had been undefeatable.

That man was Lieutenant Commander Jonathan Brandon Shepard. The Lion of Elysium, Hero of the Citadel, Destroyer of the Collectors, Bane of the Reapers...and Savior of the Galaxy. Just two weeks before, the man had led the greatest military alliance in galactic history, numbering in the tens of thousands of warships and the millions in ground troops, to lead a desperate final assault to retake Earth, use their superweapon (the Crucible) and destroy the Reapers once and for all. Many had called it a suicide mission. The last defiant act of civilization. A final gunshot before the eventual bleed out. Nobody had expected success. In fact, everybody had gone knowing, believing, that this was the end. That the galaxy was finished, and the neverending cycles of galactic genocide would continue for a billion years more.

But against all odds, against every single piece of mathematics and pre-planned military strategy, the man had done it. It didn't matter how he did it, or why, or how he was driven enough to do it after being beaten, bloodied, bashed, slashed, torn and blasted...what mattered was that he had. The Crucible had fired, its seemingly ubiquitous and all encompassing ray of death spreading from planet to planet, system by system, cluster by cluster, like wildfire. Within days...the Crucible's work was complete.

And the Reapers were dead. The monsters had stuttered and perished, defeated by the organics they deemed to be inferior and beneath them: an irony that was not lost, not forgotten, by those who had fought hard to stay alive in this brutal, nearly year-long war of attrition.

And for the first time in galactic history...space was quiet. Not the kind of quiet you'd expect from actual sound of course, as sound didn't travel in space conventionally, but the kind of quiet that came with the lack of ships engaging each other in CQB. For the first time, not a single ship fired its weapons. Not a single ship fired upon another. There was just...silence.

In that silence, in the space around a little blue ball called Earth, the homeworld of the human race, a ship blinked back into existence, the warping of the area around it rippling through the area like a drop of water hitting a puddle, but quickly receding and vanishing. The ship's engines blared, stuttering pathetically as the wounded warship carefully, but with the grace only the most skilled pilot could perform, limped into the system, making its way towards the blue ball. A ship, whose name bares the namesake of a similar battle under similar circumstances in human history, whose importance to the war effort wasn't just pivotal...it inarguably changed the tide.

The ship didn't remain silent for long.

"This is SSV  _Normandy_ SR-2 to any other surviving UGC warships in the vicinity, please respond if you're out there, over," came the usually cocky and cynical voice of probably the best pilot in not just the Alliance navy, but any galaxy's naval force. He shifted his cap uneasily, scratching at his side burns idly while his fingers tapped with the terribly hidden restraint of somebody trying not to show their impatience. Sighing, Flight Lieutenant Jeff Moreau, or 'Joker' as he had been both appropriately and sardonically nicknamed, shifted in his seat just a little, to look to the seat on his immediate right, where his co-pilot would usually be seated.

As he had expected, there was no sign of change. EDI was still where she had been during the entire flight back to Earth, the AI's mechanized body using its motorized fingers to swipe aside and examine the holographic screens infront of her at a speed no organic, no matter how intelligent or resourceful, could hope to match. Data and information was absorbed within seconds by the AI, allowing Joker to take his attention away from the fact that the  _Normandy_ was essentially limping across a battlefield with both its legs broken and with the equivalent of punctured lungs. Suffice to say, the magnificient warship was in no position to be taking anybody else on in sustained combat, although Joker doubted such combat would be necessary at this point.

The ship was barely holding together. Admiral Hackett had ordered practically the entirety of Victory Sword to evacuate the system once word was received that the Crucible would be firing: considering they had no idea what they were toying with, the Admiral was understandably reluctant to hang around to find out what. Everybody agred with the sentiment, because before you knew it, half their remaining forces had disengaged and withdrawn. Unfortunately, the  _Normandy_ was a tad more reluctant...and for good reason.

Its commanding officer wasn't onboard. Because he was on the Citadel, firing the Crucible. And everybody was pretty sure he wouldn't survive the blast.

The entire crew had been divided, but it had been Garrus Vakarian, to their surprise, who had given the order for them to withdraw. Garrus, not just the XO of the ship, but one of the best friends of the commander...perhaps not just a friend, but a man considered to be a brother. Hearing him give the order...it had sounded final. The crew had accepted the inevitable at that point, and Joker had, albeit reluctantly, withdrawn.

Except one.

Joker closed his eyes, taking a deep breath through his lungs and groaning as he did so, his heavily bruised rib cage protesting against the strain of taking in air. He tried to shut out the memory of the screaming, the verbal barrage of hatred thrown at him, and how terrible he had felt when that hatred and screaming had degenerated into...defeated sobbing. How the woman, turned from raging banshee of hate and anger, had collapsed onto the floor, crawled into a ball, and cried her eyes out until no tears were left. But Joker remembered what she had mumbled as Garrus picked her up and took her to the medbay. He remembered that well. How could he not?

_"You left him to die...how could you? How could you...?"_

And she was right. He had left their CO, their commander, to die. They all had. The man who would have given their life for each and every one of them...the man who had, for all intents and purposes, saved all of galactic civilization.

And he had been left to die, alone, cold and wounded on a space station in orbit over Earth, while his crewmates, his friends, turned tail...and  _ran._

Frustrated by the memory, and still having not received a response, Joker almost jabbed his thumb against the comms again, unable to contain his impatience for much longer, "I repeat, this is SSV  _Normandy_ SR-2 to  _any_ vessels within the vicinity capable of receiving and responding to this message. If you can hear this, say something, anything...I don't care if you sing the entire 'Amy the Martian' song at full bore, but...give me something. Anything. We'll be waiting,  _Normandy_ out."

Joker sat back forcibly, once again feeling the stab of pain in his gut as his ribs protested. He wanted to thrash around in anger, but knew that doing so would just cause his already brittle body to the point of snapping. Even EDI, who he hoped hadn't noticed, had observed his behaviour, and was now stopping her current duties to turn and address him.

"Jeff, you seem irritated."

Her statement of the obvious only infuriated him more. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he snorted, "Oh gee, thanks EDI. Next time I see Kelly, I'll tell her we've got a new shrink onboard. She can literally tell me my emotions so I don't have to realize them for myself."

Silence for a moment, and then EDI swivelled in her chair, turning to face him, having obviously seen right through his crudely structured joke, "Jeff, you are not to blame for leaving Shepard behind. We did all we could."

He gave a bitter chuckle, the pilot sitting up to look at her, finding himself unable to help a smile, despite the utter lack of warmth or humor behind it, "Did we? Garrus told us to withdraw, so we did. We didn't even consider the idea of actually finding Shepard before hopping out of the system."

EDI, just as always, failed to see the point, "That would have been mathematically impossible to pull off. The time required to reach the Citadel, locate Shepard, extract him safely, and then perform an FTL in-system jump to an unspecified location would have taken 5.4 minutes longer than what it actually took us to leave. That's exactly 5.35 minutes longer than permissable. 5.35 minutes before we can complete the task, the Crucible has already fired, thus making any-"

"Missing the point, EDI!" he cut off, not wanting to hear anymore of it...because he knew she was right. There really was nothing they could have done, but knowing that didn't make him feel better. It made him feel worse, "The point is, we could have done something, anything...we didn't even consider a rescue. We just...we just  _left_."

"And you think you're the only one who doesn't regret every second of it?"

Joker didn't need to turn around to identify who the flanged, calm and collected voice who had spoken belonged to. He just shook his head, "Never said I was the only one. I just wish...something. We could have-"

" _Enough_ ," the voice ordered, Joker feeling a presence suddenly right behind him, confirmed by the sound of a three-fingered, taloned hand grasping the back of his leathered seat, the creak of leather being squeezed tightly underneath talons designed to tear away flesh heard distinctly throughout the cockpit. Joker didn't bother to look up at the turian as he spoke, "I'll hear no more of it. All we can do right now is get our ship some help. Tali and EDI did all they could to get this ship up and off Eden Prime, but its barely holding together."

"Thanks boss," Joker jabbed sarcastically, swiping lazily away at the lingering interface, bringing up the communications system with a flex of his hand, the sound measurement flatlining at the lack of received soundwaves, "Well, would you look at that. Looks like nobody's come to bite. We tossed a fishing line into an empty pond, boss." With Shepard gone, and Garrus as XO, that made the turian the commander of the ship. Joker didn't hate Garrus, far from it, but it was hardly the same as having Shepard giving the orders. It just felt...wrong.

Garrus remained unwavering, shaking his head, "Give it a moment. There's got to be survivors nearby, or at least ships that got the same idea as us."

They watched as the  _Normandy_ drifted by the two kilometer long carcass of a motionless  _Sovereign_ -class Reaper. The behemoth, its body in the shape reminiscent of a crayfish, glided lazily through space, its gargantuan legs not making any movement at all, and its internal systems completely fried or offline. The Crucible had reduced the mighty dreadnought to a lifeless husk...a fate befitting of the monsters who had turned entire families into just as lifeless creatures and cannon fodder.

"That's right Harby, suck it," Joker mumbled under his breath as the dead Reaper passed by, "Gigantic piece of shit. I hope he cried as that field hit him...that would have been a sight to see."

"Reapers could not cry," EDI stated, never failing to completely render witty dialogue down into a rugged logically inclined paste.

Joker, entirely unsurprised by this contradiction, just shrugged, "That's what dreams are for, EDI. Guess I'll just pretend he cried then. I hope the bastard choked on it. I hope they all did."

"Amen," Garrus muttered.

Joker raised an eyebrow at that, craning his head to look up at the turian, "Where did you pick up on that word? Didn't think I'd hear a turian saying that."

Garrus just shrugged, apparently finding no issue with saying what was obviously, to a human at least, a contextually religious term, "Heard Shepard say it a lot when agreeing with something I said. Didn't take a genius to figure out what it meant."

"Fair enough," Joker replied, falling silent. The mention of Shepard had put them all in a somber mood once more, the entire cockpit falling into the same, dull quiet that had surrounded them outside the ship, the only sound being the humming of the ship's engines, which were louder than normal due to the enormous strain placed on the vessel's superstructure.

Suddenly, out of the blue, Garrus spoke up, "Tali wants to take a team to the Citadel."

Joker didn't know how to respond to that at first. He opened his mouth to return with a witty remark, but decided now wasn't the time, nor the place. Gritting his teeth and licking his lips, he draped one arm lazily off the side of his right armrest, "Let me guess...Shepard?"

"Yeah," the turian replied in kind, mandibles twitching ever so slightly: something turians did when they were pondering something. Their equivalent of an eyebrow twitch for humans, "I never really believed she had...recovered. Bottled it up maybe, that much was obvious, but moved on? You saw how she was when we left...devastated doesn't even begin to describe it."

He just rolled his eyes, "She practically yelled my ear off, tried to tear me out of the seat to gain control of the seat, and then told me what a cowardly piece of shit I was for abandoning our captain. So yeah, to say Tali took Shepard's...death...pretty hard, is a big fucking understatement, Garrus. Thank you so much. I feel like the air has been cleared s-"

"Okay, I get it. You're testy," the turian interrupted, Joker quicky realizing he had almost descended into a rant. Sighing, the pilot just clamped his mouth shut, afraid to say anything else lest he really hit a nerve he shouldn't, "And I understand Tali's position. Shepard and her...they were inseperable. What did you call them? A 'power couple'? What even is that, by the way?"

"Just another silly human metaphor," he dismissively riposted, waving for the turian to continue.

"Right," the turian just shook his head, "So yeah...its safe to say those two would die in battle together if it came to it. Hell, just trying to convince Tali to leave due to her injuries was an effort in restraint. She fought so bloody hard to follow him...despite what he said. To learn Shepard was dead, or that we left him behind..." he looked down at Joker mournfully, "My point is, don't feel guilty for carrying out an order I gave you. Its me who deserves Tali's ire, not you."

"Is this the part where I say 'just following orders'?" Joker snapped, glaring up at the turian, "Oh, save me the bullshit. This is the  _Normandy_. We didn't just follow orders on this ship...we followed results. And those results died on the Citadel."

"Tali thinks there's a chance he's still alive," Garrus admitted.

Joker nodded, albeit slowly, "I want to believe there's a chance too, but...damn it, Garrus. What are the chances? Have you taken into account that Tali's in that phase of grief where she's in denial? You saw how she was at the memorial. She took that nameplate, snapped it on her leg, and then ran off back to the cabin to sulk for a few hours. Then when she came back, she insisted on doing nothing, and I mean  _nothing_ , else but working on the ship. EDI's caught her working overtime six times.  _Six._ Four of those times, she didn't even  _sleep_. She just kept working...Gardner even had to cut her off from the stims, because she was taking so many just to stay awake. And even after she was forced to take a nap...she only napped for a few hours, and she did it in the  _engine room._  Hell, I don't think she's visited the captain's quarters once since that incident."

Garrus chose this moment to construct his response very carefully, knowing that the topic of Shepard was a particularly bitter one, "I want nothing more than to find out Shepard's alive. And if he's not, we can at least find his body and give it the burial it deserves. We all owe that to him...and Tali? She...she deserves closure. And she deserves the chance to find out if her  _neh'sah_ is still alive."

Joker frowned, "That a quarian word? Don't think I've ever heard it."

"Tali's mentioned it a few times..." Garrus wandered off mentally, his tone now far more worn and defeated, like he was finally accepting the reality that was bearing on them: that Shepard, this time, might be gone for good, and he was stuck in the uneviable position of consoling his grieving girlfriend, a woman who had felt betrayed by her own crew, and who hated herself for having not tried harder to help the man she loved, "...even heard Shepard say it once...when he was drunk. He forgot he was talking to me. Searched up the term and found out what it means."

Joker closed his eyes, not sure he wanted the answer, but asking anyway, "What does it mean?"

Garrus hesitated for a moment, then sighed, "Literally? 'My soul'."

"Fuck," Joker breathed, rubbing his face, finding his jaw tight and beard itchier than normal. He wanted nothing more than to crawl back to that moment in time, tell Hackett to go to hell, and to race to the Citadel and pick up their commander...if not for them, but so at least their resident quarian engineer, usually so full of spunk, unbridled confidence and energy, would smile again. For now, it was like she was a completely different person. Withdrawn, prone to anger, constantly slouched. All the energy had been sapped from her.

And it was beginning to have an effect on the crew. Tali's lack of morale was dragging down the morale of the rest of her crew. It was infectious. Utterly contagious. And what was worse, is that Tali didn't seem to care. She had thrown herself completely into the task of repairing the  _Normandy_  and making her spaceworthy again, to the point of ignoring everyone else, neglecting her own needs, and driving herself to the point of sleep deprivation and dehydration. She was a walking time bomb.

But at least now she had a purpose. It was clear that destroying that nameplate had been Tali's way of saying: he's not dead. She was determined to prove that. She would not stop until she found him.

Thing is, what scared the crew was...what if Shepard was dead?

What would happen to Tali then?

As if answering their thoughts, the Citadel came into the  _Normandy_ 's view. The station looked like a floating mausoleum, the station's outstretched arms bent and shattered, its usual grace splintered and broken. Debris clouded around the wards, collecting in groups to surround the orbiting area. The vicinity around the docking ring, where the Crucible was still hanging on like a mosquito draining the blood of its subject, was charred and leaking atmosphere, having been at the ground zero of the superweapon's firing apparatus.

All in all, the chances of Shepard having survived that seemed very slim.

Joker almost jumped when a voice came through his terminal, sounding distinctly asari, "This is...ARW  _Hierophant Dawn_...ometers off your...stern. Susta...mage. Trying to contact...forces in your area. Can...assist?"

Having pieced together most of what the asari responder was trying to say, and knowing the  _Hierophant Dawn_ must have been an  _Ascension_ -class dreadnought based on how it was named, Garrus quickly responded, "This is Acting Commander Garrus Vakarian of the SSV  _Normandy_ SR-2, responding. We read you  _Hierophant._ We are unable to render assistance at this time, but keep trying to reach friendly forces. If you can get your ship to the Citadel, we may be able to trade personnel and supplies until help arrives.  _Normandy_ out."

"Well, somebody finally bit. Good," Joker stated after a moment, eyes now focused on the screen fully after finally getting a response. They weren't alone in their survival, it seemed.

"Just keep listening. I'm going to take a ground team to the Citadel so we can find Shepard," Garrus declared, his hand leaving Joker's seat as he turned to head down the flight deck.

He was stopped when Joker turned around, twisting his seat so he firmly faced the turian, "Garrus," he began, causing the turian to stop and, after a moment, turn to face the pilot.

"Yes, Joker?"

Gulping, the pilot spoke, finding his voice somewhat shaky, although he didn't know why, "Watch her. I'm no shrink, but you don't need a Kelly to figure out she's fragile at the moment. All it will take is failing to find Shepard, or finding his lifeless body...before she...well, snaps."

The turian's expression was usually unreadable. But at this moment, nobody could miss the look of sadness and sheer grief in the turian's eyes that was only being kept at bay because the crew needed him. He was only calm and collected because it's what Shepard would be at a time like this, and the crew needed someone to show that, even if it was just an emulation. The turian nodded solemnly, "I will. Ship's yours until we get back. I..." he stuttered for a moment, but shook his head, turning to continue his walk down the flight deck, "...I hope we come back with him."

Watching the turian depart for the elevator, Joker turned in his chair to look back out at the empty space, barely feeling one of EDI's hands as it reached over and slightly patted his. He just looked straight at the Citadel, finding his eyesight taken up by nothing but that.

In that moment, six seconds after he had begun to stare mindlessly at the Citadel, his vision fogging up as his eyesight zoned out, he knew why he had been so shaky.

He was scared. Not for himself. Not for Garrus. Not even for EDI or the crew. But for Tali.

He silently prayed they found Shepard in one piece.

* * *

_Council Chambers, The Citadel - October 11, 2186 - 45 minutes later._

" _John_!" a desperate voice called out, echoing across the vast empty space filled with rubble and debris, the detritus that remained from the firing of the gigantic superweapon that loomed over them nearby. The voiced carried for what seemed like miles, echoing across every inch of the battered facility, carrying with it the shrill tone of its desperate plea for an answer.

None was forthcoming.

Almost tripping on a piece of jutting rebar, the quarian engineer known as Tali'Zorah vas Normandy carefully and tentatively stepped down the artificial slope created by the destruction around her, three toed feet guiding her form gently down the slippery mini cliff. But the quarian was hardly paying her attention. All of it was focused on one goal, and one goal only.

Finding her  _neh'sah_. By whatever means necessary.

Finding purchase at the end of the slope, she felt she had left a reasonable amount of time pass by after her first call out, and quickly yelled out again, drawing upon every inch of energy she had left...which wasn't much, considering her near comatose state the past two weeks.

" _John, answer me! John!_   _Are you alive out there!?_ " she cried, her throat raw and dry from the constant yelling. They had been going at this for half an hour now, and they had come up with nothing. In the beginning, they had stuck together, but as their searching grew more desperate, they had reluctantly seperated into smaller groups, and eventually, off by themselves. The entire squad had volunteered to aid in the search of their commander, each and every one of them owing him for one thing or another. They were indebted to help him. So when they had agreed to go alone to cover more ground, no complaints had arisen.

Although Tali had a distinct feeling she had played a part in their decision to remain silent as well. Especially if Garrus shadowing her was any indication.

She wasn't foolish or naive. She knew what effect her behaviour had on the crew, and how it must have made the crew feel. She remembered in detail the vitriol she had spewed at Joker, and how badly she had wanted to apologize for the unacceptable behaviour afterwards. She remembered snapping Shepard's nameplate in half at the memorial, and how she had effectively been spitting on everybody else's grief simply because she was so enraptured in her own. And she knew that Garrus, one of her best friends, was worried about her. Not just worried...seriously concerned.

She had caught the glimpses he'd thrown her. He was afraid how she would react...react to what, she wasn't sure. Not finding Shepard? Finding him dead? Finding him alive? She must have been extremely unpredictable at that moment...her next actions completely unknown. Her grief had driven her to the point of killing herself. Not in the traditional sense of suicide, but by working herself non-stop to the point of awarding nobody else the time of day. She had barely eaten, slept, drank anything, or talked to a single soul other than herself for almost two weeks. Her only companion had been her memories. Specifically, memories of John.

_Please answer...I need you to answer. I don't know what I'll...I'll do if you don't. No, you have to be alive...you always had a contingency. Keelah, you even came back from the dead once more...you could do it again. I've watched you stare down a Reaper and punch a yahg to death. If anybody could survive this, its you. Please...please, please, please..._

_Come back to me...don't leave me..._

Her search continued. But she wasn't alone.

A loud bark could be heard to her right, and the quarian turned her to head to behold her unusual and unexpected companion. If anybody had asked her twelve years ago if she would have taken a varren as a pet, she would have laughed them onto their pilgrimages early for even asking such a silly question. And yet here she was, watching a varren, the giant fishdog-looking animal, wandering through the ruins, sniffing and occassionally barking as he too continued the search for his lost owner.

"Urz!" Tali called out, getting the varren's attention as its head twisted around, tongue hanging out as it panted, to the sound of the quarian's familiar accented voice, "Over here, boy! Come on, come on!"

The varren, Urz, willingly complied, trotting down from its position to jog over to her. The varren barked at her, although it wasn't actively hostile in nature and Tali wasn't at all afraid of it. She kneeled down, scratching the underside of the beast's chin as she did. Shepard had been approached by Ratch, one of Wrex's krogan mechanics, just before leaving Tuchanka about taking Urz on as a pet, as the varren had apparently created some kind of bond with Shepard, effectively rendering them inseperable. Shepard, to her bafflement, had accepted to take Urz onto a warship, and had left him in the hangar bay. Urz had quickly taken a liking to Tali too, although it was likely because she would make it her task to come down as often as possible to feed him treats, play fetch with him and scratch his back. Eventually, Urz must have founded a bond with her too, because he had been at her bedside as she recovered from the battle on Earth, and had snuck onto the shuttle somehow before departing to find Shepard.

In a way, both Tali and Urz were bonded in that they had one mutual goal in mind: find Shepard. The two had held onto that mission for the past half hour, using it to fuel their state of mind, more so for Tali than the varren. If she succumbed to despair, she knew she'd never recover.

_I have to find him...I must. He's here somewhere. I know it. He wouldn't just leave me..._

Standing up, hand trailing along the varren's chin as she did, Tali turned away and continued her journey once more, shouting his name again, and once again listening to it echo across the surrounding area. She was again answered by silence, but she didn't stop. She kept yelling. Shouting. Pleading. She didn't have a choice.

She had all but forgotten the fact that Garrus was behind her. She had forgotten about Urz, the crew, even her own body...she had phased it out of her psyche. It wasn't important. All that mattered was getting to him, by any means.

_Please answer me, you bosh'tet...you've got to build me a house..._

" _ **John!**_ " she practically screamed, her legs beginning to feel weak and wobbly. She knew what was happening, but was hopeless to stop it. Her refusal to give into reality was beginning to break down, revealing her vulnerable core underneath. Despair crept into her mind, pulling her down to the ground with the weight of a starship. Her voice was weak now, barely able to keep up with the enormous exertion she was placing on her vocal cords.

"Please John..." she whispered, finally giving in and collapsing to her knees, hands splayed out infront of her to arrest her fall. Sitting up, she felt a single tear streak down her cheek as she felt her breathing constrict and her injuries begin to flare up once more. Two weeks wasn't near enough for the scars she carried from the Battle of London to fully heal, and their discontent with how she drove her body was beginning to make itself known, "...don't do this to me...you promised...you can't be dead...I need you...please, answer me..."

Each word was a new stab of agony, and she finally broke as her lips begin to quiver and more tears joined the first in soaking her light grey cheeks. Her entire body followed suit, shuddering violently as the first sob pushed past her last defenses, and erupted past her lips. More followed, and she found herself closing her eyes and beginning to silently weep.

He was gone.

* * *

His head is pounding. He can't think. He can't move. He can just barely breathe.

Commander Shepard was, one could say, was resting idly in a state between dead and alive. He even  _felt_ like death, every single inch of his body radiating pain and agony that was so unimaginable, that he was beginning to wonder if his ability to feel it had been stripped away from him. There was simply no way to describe how he felt.

But the physical pain only made up half of the affliction upon him.

It wasn't fair. The universe liked to play cruel tricks, it seemed. Shepard had everything. He had a crew who would fight and die for him, a feeling of which was mutual. He was a galactically recognized icon. He had an excellent ship. And most important of all, he had a significant other. Tali.

He breathed in deeply at the thought of her, and immediately regretted it. The dusty air and ozone filled his lungs immediately, leaving him a wheezing mess, his throat tender from the violent ejections of air.  _Oh god...Tali..._

Brief flashes of events that had passed lapsed in his mind, focused on the battle that led up to where he was now. Their fighting through London's blistered and war torn streets. Their mad dash to the Beam. The sheer terror he felt watching a capsizing Mako explode near his two best friends, injuring them. His seemingly final goodbye to his quarian lover, tears streaking down his face as her last words to him echoed in his mind.

_"Come back to me..."_

The look of her beautiful face, smiling down at him as she descended to kiss him passionately, the taste of her lips and feel of her skin against the last memory he clung unto as the Crucible fired, bathing him in intense radiation and heat, a final testament to what would have been, should have been, his ultimate sacrifice.

How she must feel right now, thinking he was dead. Not knowing that she was wrong, but would soon be right, as he slowly died, alone and pinned under an untold amount of steel sheeting and cracked concrete. The brought him sadness, realizing that everything he had wanted to tell her, everything he had wanted to do with her...the very reason he had fought so hard to destroy the Reapers in the first place...all of it was for nought. It was over. He was finished. He was going to die...alone.

And knowing Tali, she would blame herself.

He briefly entertained the illusion that he had heard someone calling out to him, but dismissed it almost immediately. He could have sworn he heard his first name being used, and only Tali and his mother ever called him that: the former was either dead or fleeing the system, and the latter was...probably doing the exact same thing. So no, it couldn't be. Not here. Not now. His mind was just playing tricks on him. Giving him a faint glimmer of hope, as it always seemed to do.

_No. Tali gave me that hope. And now she's not here. I sent her away...to safety._

He heard the name shouted again, but as he began to close his eyes, black tendrils creeping up along his vision, they shot open again, the sound being  _much_ closer than it was before, and more distinct...for instance, he was able to pick up on the accent. It sounded distinctly electronic, like it was being modulated through a helmet, and had a slight Russian sounding twang to it.

_No...it can't be..._

_...Tali?_

Hope filled him once more, even if ever so slight. The darkness was repelled for the moment.

If it was, he had to try. He had to get their attention.

"T..." he groaned, his throat so badly dried out that his vocal cords were struggling to raise his voice to a reasonable octave, words barely leaving his lips at a whisper. But he couldn't give up. He had to get Tali's attention, or he would die. The pain he felt was unbearable, and his body just wanted to slip into the sweet, permanent coma that death provided, relieving him of his plight. But the one person who was worth suffering through all that pain for was calling to him, and he needed to get her attention. To let her know he was alive.

Even if he was going insane...he'd rather hang onto a sliver of hope than none at all, however delusional.

"T...a...l...i..." he gasped, still unable to raise his voice sufficiently. It was no use. There was no way she was going to be able to hear him at this rate, and if he didn't get her attention soon, she would pass right by him obliviously and he will have died knowing he failed her.

He moved to raise one arm, ignoring the jolt of pain his tormented limb assailed him with, but was scarcely able to raise it more than two inches before it bumped up against a fallen steel beam, which was draped across his abdomen and had him pinned. Regardless, he curled his fingers into a fist slowly and gradually, and did the loudest thing he could.

He knocked.

Twice more. Thrice. Four more times. Then five. Each was more faint than the last as he heard Tali's voice getting fainter, the commander likely so deep or so well hidden under the debris that the sound simply wasn't carrying enough to be heard. As she got further away, his knocks got weaker and subsided, reality quickly setting in as his arm slumped in defeat.

_That's it...its over. After all I've been through...this is how it ends._

He tried to make his final moments as sweet as possible. He closed his eyes, welcoming the darkness into his vision, as he summoned the only thought that brought him peace. He felt a slight smile grace his lips as he remembered that final night he shared with Tali among the sheets, laughing and moaning, comforting and pleasuring each other. Holding each other, and making love to each other. It was one of his sweetest memories, and it was one he could quite happily die to.

Then, the weirdest sound was heard.

Barking. Directly  _above him._

His eyes slowly pulled themselves open, reluctantly pulled away from the sweet memory he was ready to get lost in as the life left his body. Streaks of blood dripped into his eyes, but he blinked rapidly to clear them, only now beginning to notice the crusted blood on his cheeks and forehead as his hearing slowly returned to focus on the new sound assaulting his ears.

But then it was accompanied, once again, by the most saccharine sound he wished to hear.

"What is it, Urz!? What have you found!?"

 _Urz. Varren._ _**My** _ _varren. Urz...URZ!_

_You beautiful varren! You beautiful, magnificient little fish dog!_

Shepard would never have thought he'd be thanking a varren for saving his life...but here he was.

"Keelah...Garrus, Javik! Get over here, now! I think Urz has found him!" Tali shouted, summoning her nearby companions. It wasn't long before Shepard could hear the pitter patter of footsteps above him, his crew no doubt running to the rescue, as he had always done for them. He allowed himself the patience of sitting tight and waiting as piece after piece of debris was carefully and intrinsically removed, bringing him closer and closer to freedom. It was only then he noticed how stale the air had become, lungs heaving and wheezing in a mighty effort to draw upon as much oxygen as possible to keep him awake, the man not ready to die from something as little as hypoxia when he was so close to being rescued. He willed himself to stay awake. He had to.

For her.

_I'm coming back, dear. Just like you asked._

He groaned pathetically as the last piece of debris barring him from the outside world was lifted from his stomach, the steel beam carried in a field of sizzling green biotic energy as it was effortlessly lifted away and let go, the green substance snapping out of existence and allowing the steel beam to crash to the ground away from them. He breathed in as fresh air rushed into his lungs, but his smashed ribcage reminded him just how bad an idea that kneejerk reaction was.

"Spirits..."

Craning his head, Shepard could see Garrus, along with the majority of the crew, now standing around him in a semi-circle, looking down at him with mixtures of awe, concern and triumph.

There was a blur at the edge of his vision, and he turned around just in time for a long, red appendage to drag its way across his face, globs of saliva running down his face and causing the remaining wet blood to drip from his face and onto the ground. He allowed himself a moment to laugh, grinning as he did, even if the action itself brought intense agony to every square inch of his body, "Nice to see you too, Urz."

The varren just barked happily, and licked him again.

Another blur, this one purple, was a far more warming sight, a pair of long, slender arms wrapping themselves around his broad torso, hooded and helmeted head tucking itself under his chin and embracing him so tightly he thought his remaining bones might break. It took him a second to realize she was whispering something, and that his ears were initally having trouble picking it up.

"You're alive, you're alive, you're alive, you're alive..."

On and on she said, eventually falling into silence as she held him, beginning to rock back and forth soothingly, hand reaching up and running through his slightly singed, but still cropped, black hair. He found the tendrils of sleep creeping up on him again, but this time he felt safe giving into its embrace.

Tali was here. He wasn't alone anymore. His crew was with him, Urz had essentially saved him, and he was back in the arms of the one person he would tear through an entire galaxy to protect. And as he slumped and gave into his need to surrender to her comforting embrace, he felt at peace. He wasn't going to die. And even if he did, he wouldn't be alone.

With this in mind, Commander Shepard closed his eyes again, the darkness finally forcing the Savior of the Galaxy into a much needed rest.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**What you see as Flashpoint being delayed was actually me working on an entirely new story. Yeah, didn't see that coming, did you?** _

_**Yeah, I wanted to try something different. I was getting a bit fed up with the slow progress of FABT, and Flashpoint prompts, while fun to write, lacked a plot I could get really invested into, not to mention really have fun with. So here I am, with a new story. Welcome to Equilibrium: Crusader.** _

_**This won't be what you're used to. No 30k chapters. Story won't be longer than 40 chapters. Both of these things don't necessarily mean more frequent updates, but it does mean the likelihood of them coming out sooner, rather than later, is dramatically increased.** _

_**For this story, I'm taking a few notes out of Rob Sears' book, and then some. While this story will still be quite dark (make no mistake, this won't be a fluff-filled joyride), there will be enough intrigue and loveable character interactions to keep you all satisfied. While the focus of this story is undoubtably on Shepard and Tali, this does not mean the rest of the squad and crew will remain on the sidelines. You'll see.** _

_**I'll say no more, for I don't want to spoil it. But I hope you enjoy this latest story of mine. There's more to come. :)** _

_**Oh, and speaking of taking notes from Rob Sears' book...how about music recommendations?** _

**Tali's Search for Shepard** : **"Der Krieg Ist Aus" by Stephan Zacharias from the film** _ **Downfall (Der Untergang)**_.

 **Shepard Saved** :  **"Arrival (Luck)" by Martin O'Donnell and Michael Salvatori from the game** _ **Halo 3**_   **(0:55 to 2:42)**.


	2. His Serenity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard shows off the new house to Tali. Garrus makes his report to the Council.

_"There is probably an element of malice in the readiness to overestimate people: we are laying up for ourselves the pleasure of later cutting them down to size."_ \- Eric Hoffer.

* * *

_Rannoch - December 4, 2187 - A year and two months since the Reaper War_ _._

"Slow down, Tali! The house isn't going anywhere!"

Despite what he said, Jonathan Shepard was grinning from ear to ear. Today was the big day. Perhaps not  _the_ big day, the same one that romance films play up as the climatic event, the one deserving of the most attention, but it was certainly a big day for one of them, that much was certain. In the proverbial wheel of life, there was one truth that remained utterly constant for Shepard: Tali's happiness.

He likes to think that quota was fullfilled on today of all days.

Even as he pulled himself from the interior of the skycar, he could feel the boundless and excited energy of his girlfriend radiating from her as he watched her dart from the driver's seat and practically skip towards the house's front door. He could still feel it even as Rannoch's unrelenting sun beat down on him with its intense ultraviolet rays, making him wince slightly from the intense heat. He could still feel it, even as his right leg quivered ever so slightly from the weight placed upon it, a dull ache permeating its way through the sore ligament, but unable to grab his full attention. Normally, it was all he could focus on. In the seven months he spent recuperating on Earth, he had nothing but Tali, his sore legs and his wounded pride to think about. But now that he was here...he could finally ignore it, and focus on what mattered.

The house was the cynosure of his attention.

It was an odd arrangement: a large, two-storey, nearly-mansion sized house that stood vigil in an otherwise segregated and open plot of land, seperated from the rest of quarian civilization. Had he been any other quarian, he'd probably be sneering in disgust at this apparent waste of resources. But he wasn't. In fact, he was one of the two people, the other being Tali, who helped design it.

It had been a schematic that had evolved over time. They had first started designing it just after the battle for Rannoch had drawn to its conclusion during the war, the two of them taking the time they had left to celebrate to contemplate their future and plan ahead: deciding what their home would look like had definitely been on their agenda. Tali had merely entertained the idea: she was thoroughly convinced no quarian government would ever agree to allow such a large and exorbitant structure to be built, especially when they had just reclaimed their homeworld. Of course, that hadn't stopped Shepard. While inbound to Omega, he had made sure to submit a formal request to the quarian government, now known as the provisional conclave, for a plot of land and permission to build on it.

To his shock, they had permitted it, citing that what they had done for the quarian people warranted such a reward for his services, but that the materials would have to be imported, as the quarians didn't have the resources to spare: fair enough. What surprised even more, was that  _geth_ had been made privy, and allowed to participate, in the overall decision. Apparently the quarians were taking the Coalition very seriously, fully committed to amending their mistakes. As such, he had made claim to a solid acre of land, at least twenty kilometers south of the capital, El'Tivv. Where it had waited until the war was over, when he could begin to build on it.

He had kept his promise. The moment they arrived on Rannoch, both he and Tali had gotten temporary accomodation while he begun construction of their house. The geth had immediately offered assistance, and despite initially wanting to build it himself, he had relented, and before he knew it, at least twelve geth platforms were helping him with the house. To be fair though, their help had made the process much easier: a two year process had been reduced to under a year, with the geth able to perform manual labour much faster and quicker than he could. If it wasn't for him, they wouldn't be standing here right now.

So, he had that much to be thankful for, at the very least.

He felt a tuft of grass crunch beneath his feet as he stepped on it, barely watching where he was going. For miles round, tall canyon walls surrounded them, walls of stone that acted as flank defenses against the rest of Rannoch's untamed biosphere. The orange sky maintained an envelope above them, tinted clouds passing over them in thin ribbons. An echelon of  _qui'tee_ flew high above them, screeching in their high pitched tones. All of this served to prove to Shepard just how alien this world was to him. This was not Earth. This was not any human colony he had been to. But it was his new home all the same.

_Best get used to it._

Pivoting on the spot, he turned and couldn't help but smile warmly as he watched Tali bound up the steps of the veranda, quickly reaching the front door: a non-mechanical, old style double acting swing door that Shepard thought would be more appropriate and homey than having the haptic-interface autodoors that were now more commonplace. Instead of a key however, the door used an omni-recognition software keyed to the rest of the house that quickly scans the omni-tool of the person approaching and quickly scans its onboard computer database to ensure they are registered for entrance, and then unlocks or remains locked based on the information found. Hardly impervious, but still considered one of the best security systems in the galaxy. And no doubt it will be made even better once Tali gets her hands on it.

At the door, Tali raised her omni-tool and was preparing to open the door when she hesitated for a moment, turning her head in his direction. Apparently it had dawned on her that she had unconsciously left Shepard to chew dust, and she quickly lowered her omni-tool, turning fully towards him. In that moment, Shepard got a glimpse of Tikkun's rays reflecting off her visor, the brightness enough to temporarily reveal the outline of the face hidden underneath. In just a brief moment, it was gone, but the image alone succeeded in keeping the smile on his face, allowing him to ignore the aching sensation in his leg.

Tali crossed her arms, but it didn't take a genius to notice her rapid up and down movement, the excited quarian bouncing on her toes as a wave of energetic, frisky enthusiasm overcame her, willing the quarian into action. Her species as a whole seemed to find the notion of sitting still almost taboo: he rarely ever saw quarians sitting down for longer than a few minutes, and their inconquerable exuberance made sure that when they were able to, they would be tinkering with something or doing labour of some kind. Tali was a prime example of quarians in a nutshell: her indomitable will to always be productive overcoming her.

Another trait he loved about her.

"Then hurry up!" she shouted, beginning to pace around the front door in her excitement as he began to limp towards the stairs. Her tone was playful, understanding full well he needed to take his time and by no means suggesting he should attempt to run.

He chuckled lightly, edging away from the skycar. Despite his limp, he had refused to use a cane, an issue Tali had argued with him quite a bit about, but a topic of which she dropped once she knew he wouldn't budge.

In truth, he had enough of being treated like an old man. If he could stand and move around with minimal difficulty, then there would be no cane. The doctors assured him the limb would be less pronounced in a few years, and that he'd be able to enjoy a life relatively free of pain.

Reaching the steps, he looked up, and took a second to admire the house before him. To any quarian who looked upon it, it was gigantic. But to him...it was just right. Enough room for himself and Tali to enjoy to themselves, with enough amenities to keep them entertained. And, of course, large enough for when they-

He stopped himself short of that thought, cursing himself for having let his thoughts wander.  _No, you're not even sure she wants the same yet. Best keep those thoughts to myself until the time is right._

He mounted the steps quickly, finding a modest veranda, with a few deck chairs sprawled across the front, wood and steel combined with the structure's design to create a sturdy, solid fixture. He was quite proud of it, running his hand along the smooth, expertly carved hardwood of the railing, patting it gently with a caress only a builder admiring his handiwork could muster or understand. He closed his eyes, breathing in the sweet smell of a brand new home.

_We're here. We actually did it. Unbelievable._

He took a moment, opening his eyes only when he realized Tali was silent. A bit  _too_ silent.

With a brief chuckle, he slowly turned towards her, nodding as he saw her head cocked, looking at him, with her hands clasped behind her back in an innocent pose that was designed to grab his attention. He gave a brief nod, bringing up his arm as he pointed to the new house they would share together.

"I kept my promise, Tali," he stated simply, giving the wall a firm wrap with his knuckles, the resounding knock echoing through the wall, just as it should. Turning back to her, he raised his omni-tool, doing so in sync with her, "Shall we do the honors?"

Her response was an eager nod, grinning underneath her helmet. Together, they inputted the registration codes to their omni-tools and sent them to the house's security mainframe, connecting with its external wireless network in mere seconds. A few moments later, the locks on the door disengaged with an audible series of clicks and clanging, ending with the door's indicator switching from red to green.

He deactivated his omni-tool, turning to address Tali, "Well, Tali, I think we-"

She was gone the moment he opened his mouth. Three fingered hands wrapped around the door handle and almost wrenched it open, the object's robust construction the only reason the door wasn't completely torn from its hinges from the force of Tali grabbing it, the door flipping open to permit her entrance. The quarian rushed inside, disappearing in a blur of purple, and despite his temporary bafflement, he eventually just exhaled, that ever present, dumb smirk on his face unwavering.

"Yeah, thanks Tali. Sure, ladies first. By all means, go inside," he sarcastically muttered, shaking his head with amusement. Before he could move inside to join her though, a loud bark was heard, immediately causing him to stop and sidestep to the left, knowing what was about to follow if he didn't.

Just in the nick of time too, the Alliance commander watching as Urz bounded up the steps to join him, the varren announcing its approach with another bark. It panted heavily, sitting down as it looked up at Shepard expectantly. The commander could feel the varren looking at him almost accusingly.

"Yeah, I guess we did forget you, didn't we boy?" he apologetically stated, taking a knee as he stroked underneath Urz's chin, bringing no end of joy to the varren as he barked with satisfaction. Once he believed he had received sufficient attention, Urz backed off a bit, and Shepard stood up, motioning into the house, "Go on boy, in you go."

He needed no further encouragement. In moments, almost as quickly as Tali, the varren was darting inside, the clack of its claws echoing throughout the house as it ran across the wooden floor within. Shaking his head, he finally made his way inside, closing the door gently, but firmly, behind him with a click.

Whilst the house had been dark before, the automatic lighting had switched on the moment the first occupant had entered the premise, the intensity of which was dependent on the time of day: dim during the day, full brightness at night. Every inch of the residence was lit up, giving him a thorough view of what he had helped build.

The entrance to the house opened into an atrium of sorts: a hallway that granted access to the remainder of the house. The room off to the left led to the main lounge area, while the one off to the right was the kitchen, the size of the one in the late Anderson's apartment on the Citadel. A flight of stairs hugged the wall directly infront of him, leading up to the second storey above, where the bedrooms and bathroom facilities were located.

As yet, the house had only just been finished, and thus was barren. Not a single piece of furniture adorned the venue, although Shepard had requested that at least one item of value be placed inside before his arrival: even from here, he could already see the photo itself, hanging from the wall opposite the second storey stairwell. With practiced ease, he made his way over to it, smiling as it came into view.

There they were, his entire squad and crew, at Anderson's apartment, positioned in an array of places. Shepard and Tali, arms wrapped around each other, the latter's head on the former's shoulder, looking directly into the camera. Liara standing behind him, arms clasped behind her back and smiling a large, warm smile while Kasumi, unbeknownst to the asari, stood behind her, head peeking over her shoulder comically as she raised her hand behind the asari's head, two fingers splayed out in an imitation of puppy ears. Beside her, Garrus looking at Kasumi out of his peripheral vision, clearly trying not to shake his head. James further to Garrus' right, flexing his muscles in a fashion that was supposed to be impressive, while Cortez, drunk to the point of collapse, tried to imitate him mockingly. Samara stood beside them, offering a small smile, her focus entirely on the camera.

Grunt and Wrex stood behind Liara and Kasumi, laughing as they slapped each other's backs, bottles of ryncol in each of their hands: Shepard remembered they were singing a krogan battle song, Javik trying his best to follow along as he too, drunk beyond belief, tried to utter the song in his native tongue, only to have it hilariously mistranslate. Beside them and to the right, Miranda stood with her own hands clasped behind her back, Jacob snapping a salute. Jack pointed at Miranda from the side, laughing hysterically with Zaeed and Ashley at some kind of inside joke he wasn't privy to. Zaeed was caught mid shot skulling a bottle of whiskey, the grizzled mercenary taking it like it was cheap water. Joker and EDI sat on the couch beside Shepard and Tali, Joker looking lost as EDI held his hand, trying her best to smile, and not doing too bad of a job. Chakwas, Gabby, Gardner, Kenneth, and Samantha stood to the far left, all of them adopting goofy poses as they attempted, or at least he assumed they were, to salute the camera.

A moment of happiness amongst all the darkness. It reminded Shepard and Tali what they had fought for. A perfect image to have placed in their home.

Just as he finished observing the photo, he turned to look down the hall, where he could see the back door, watching as Tali rounded the corner and, upon seeing him, sprinted towards him. Bracing himself with a smirk, he opened his arms and wrapped them around the lithe quarian as she leapt into his awaiting arms, hugging him intensely, the commander just holding her there, in the air, before lowering her and allowing her feet to touch the floor. The sound of Urz's barking was distant to their ears.

"You like it?" he whispered, wanting to salvage the tender moment between them.

"I love it," she whispered in kind, lifting her head so she could look into his eyes, "Its...its everything I hoped it would be and more. I...thank you, John."

He laughed, "I'm glad you like it, Tali."

The quarian briefly looked at the photo on the wall, and smiled, tapping her visor with his forehead, "It feels like home already. Now we just need to move in."

 _Indeed._ He squeezed her tightly before parting from her embrace, gently holding her shoulders as he looked at her lovingly, "Sure, but how about we have a look upstairs first? I'm sure you're eager to see the bedroom."

She noticeably blushed under her mask, nodding, "Yes, its the only part of the house I haven't seen yet. Shall we look at it together? I'm sorry about running off on you, it was unfair of me to just-"

He held up a hand, forestalling any further attempts by the quarian to apologize for her actions, "Don't you dare apologize. You have every reason to be excited Tali, and if that means I have to get left behind for a little bit so you can explore, then I'll just have to keep up. I did survive the military, after all. I understand the virtue of patience."

She sighed, giving a weak nod, before looking back at him, reaching up a delicate, three-fingered hand to stroke his cheek, her voice soft and barely audible despite being the only two people in the house and for kilometers around, "Thank you."

He smiled back, twisting his head around and kissing the palm of her suited hand before pulling it away from his face, grasping it tenderly between his own five-fingered hand, "So how about we go and explore upstairs? Together this time."

"I'd like that," was her only response as the two, hand-in-hand, began their trek up the steps to the house's second storey, their eagerness to explore their new living arranagements taking priority over all other impulses.

A few minutes later, and the two of them returned from their exploration, finding themselves in the lounge room as they pondered what to do next. It was here that Shepard realized just how tired he was, and to his frustration, his right leg began to ache with a fierce intensity, causing him to grunt in alarm. His eyes widened, and the smile he had managed to maintain for the entirety of the day was beginning to deteriorate as his mind was drawn towards what he believed to be an impending predicament.

_No, not now, please not now..._

_Just let me have this moment, damn it!_

His body was having none of it. The ache grew with every pulse, growing more and more intolerable, until he, with a resigned sigh, gave in and quickly crouched to the ground, lying his back down on the wooden floor as he splayed his body out, bringing himself to fully lie on his back. He breathed heavily, waiting for what he felt to be inevitable.

But just as it seemed the ache would escalate further...it suddenly calmed down, ebbing away into the low, barely perceptible ache he had encountered before. He wanted to clench his fists out of annoyance and slam them into the ground, but he knew such an action might draw Tali's attention, cause her to worry and ruin the moment for her.

He refused to do that. This was her big day. The day he fulfilled her father's promise,  _his_ promise, to her. The day she finally got to enjoy what having a homeworld really meant. This day wasn't just for him, it was mostly for her. And he'd be damned if he let this incident potentially destroy what he worked so hard to see: a Tali free of her work commitments, allowed to release her inner excitement.

_Thank God for that...if it had escalated any further..._

He felt a presense on his left, and immediately recognized Tali lying down next to him, hands clasped on her stomach as she rested her head on the floor in imitation of him. He silently hoped she hadn't noticed anything. If she noticed even the slightest wince of pain, that would mean-

The quarian sighed happily, his first indicator that she didn't know, only confirmed in what she said next, "There's...so much  _space_. Keelah, what are we going to do with it all, John?"

Good. She hadn't noticed. And God, would he never get sick of hearing her use his first name. In the three years he had known her, she had always called him Shepard, but only after they had entered a relationship, and after consistent prodding that it was indeed okay for her to call him such, she finally started calling him John. And it felt right. It sounded good to hear her call him that, like it was a validation of how they felt towards each other.

Glad that his near-episode had been averted and was now being left behind them, he turned his head slightly, finding hers tilted towards the ceiling, the quarian's glowing eyes darting back and forth as she likely took in every single feature of the ceiling she could, no doubt her mask feeding her information on the materials used, or the technological aspects of the house's primary structural computer. He could imagine the dopey smile on her face as she was overwhelmed by the information at her fingertips, the quarian side of her marvelling at the new tech she got to play with.

_That reminds me...I should tell her about the little garage we now have...oh, she'll love it._

He reached over and grabbed one of her hands, pulling it away from her belly and squeezing it, causing the quarian to crane her head to look at him. He smiled at her, "Whatever you want, Tali. Whatever  _we_ want. This is our home now. I built this for you. Everything little thing here is designed to make your lives as comfortable as possible from now on. I built this place to be a home. Just like you wanted."

The eyes behind her helmet blinked, then narrowed as she smiled back at him, his infectious positivity rubbing off on her, "Just like  _we_ wanted. Remember, we built this home for ourselves. No more war. No more fighting. Just you, me and this house," she looked around the room, in awe at the space afforded to her, "But  _keelah_ , I simply can't get over it. For a quarian to have so much space back during the Exodus...they would have been severely penalized. Such space should be filled with resources and people...we could fit forty families here, plus their extended family. We most definitely will need to add some things in here to spruce the place up. Oh, and I wouldn't mind a workshop. You know how I like to tinker with things, and Chiktika really could use some maintenance. And of course you'll want a place to exercise as well, so we'll have to find a place for-

Shepard was content just laying there, listening to his girlfriend talk as he laid his head back, allowing her soothing voice to impose a moratorium on his higher brain functions, allowing him to slowly relax. As he listened to her babble, the quarian getting quite animated with her ramblings, her deep accented tone relaxed him a bit too well, Shepard barely putting up a fight as he felt his eyelids getting heavy. Despite himself though, he didn't try to stay awake, and simply allowed the last thing he heard be Tali's voice as he gradually lost conciousness.

After all, that was probably the best thing to fall asleep to.

* * *

_Royal London Hospital, England, Earth - October 15, 2186 - Four days after Shepard's retrieval._

_He could feel the darkness slowly releasing him from its embrace, eyes fluttering open as he was forcibly ejected from his slumber. Despite being somewhat well rested, his initial view of the world around him as his eyes opened was one of a blurry myopia, with his eyes stinging uncomfortably in reaction to the assault of sunlight upon his senses. He sniffed, the smell of thick ozone and disinfectant pungent in the air, the smell so powerful he could almost taste it. His ears, hearing returning to him in waves, could pick up a series of distinct pings, each one steady and repetitive, almost reminiscent of a heartbeat._

_Finally, his eyes granted him respite, and his vision returned to its full extent, only with a dull ache to linger. He was in a small, sterile white room, which he had come to identify with laboratories or medical facilities. Two glass panes acted as windows to the outside world to his right, bright beams of sunlight reaching through to illuminate him and the room. Several charts lined the wall, likely detailing medical recommendations, but he couldn't make them out in his current state. However, he is easily able to make out the black lettering on the left side of the wall._

_'Room B-21.'_

_The next thing he notices is that he's in bed: more specifically, a gatch hospital stretcher, the upper section elevated to keep him sitting up. Matching white sheets covered everything from his torso downwards, its thin material leaving much to be desired as he felt the London chill creeping into his bones from the open window. He reached up and scratched his chin, where he felt his usually cropped stubble beginning to thicken...a tad more than regulation allowed, but something he'd deal with later._

_The pings continued, and he turned to address them, realizing he was hooked up to a life support machine. IV drips lined most of his arms, and it wasn't until now that he realized he had a breather mask latched over his nose and mouth. Finding himself able to breathe just fine, and finding it more irritating than helpful, he reached up and removed it, but kept the drips injected into his arms just in case._

_There was a shuffling sound below and to his right, and when he reached over to look down, he felt a slight grin peel across his lips at the sight of Urz, curled up in a near ball, resting at his bedside, tail switching ever so slightly as the gigantic fish dog slept, a low grumbling sound emitting from its throat. He had no idea how long the varren had been there, or how the doctors had permitted his presence, but he was sure grateful for it. He felt a lot safer with a varren nearby, especially that had bonded so closely with him._

_It then dawned on him that something was wrong with this picture. There was something...no, some_ _**one** _ _, who was supposed to be here, with him. If he could just think straight...his thoughts were a nebulous reef of discombobulated thoughts and musings. But, in no time at all, it struck him what was missing._ _**Who** _ _was missing._

_Tali!_

_Before he could do anything however, the door to his left opened, and a doctor strode through, seemingly shocked by the sight of Shepard being awake: apparently he wasn't supposed to be up yet. He was a human male: a bald man with hazel eyes, a 5 o'clock shadow, a large nose and puckered lips. He wore a heavy labcoat and held a datapad in one hand, having been typing at it as he entered the room, but having now lowered it as he noticed Shepard. The commander focused on the doctor's nametag, trying to identify the man._

_'Dr. C. Stoneman,' it read._

_The doctor was the first to speak, the sound of a subtle Londoner accent barely noticeable if you weren't actively listening for it, "Commander, you're awake much earlier than we expected. You weren't supposed to be up for another week. Still, I guess this is a good sign. How are you feeling?" he raised his datapad, typing at it with thin, craggly fingers. He looked to be eighty, but had the strength of a thirty year old. Such was the wonders of 22nd century medical science, it seemed._

_Shepard shrugged, groaning as he tried to sit up further, but found his lower back wasn't having it, the man barely able to feel it as he slumped back down. He shook his head, groaning at the slight headache he felt pinching at the front of his brain, almost like an immense pressure was being placed against his skull, threatening to explode, "Uh...like I want to die, doc. Just...just how long was I out for?"_

_Stoneman sighed, maintaining an ever present insouciance towards his patient, a discipline maintained through years at crafting his practice, "Four days, commander. And you were on an operating table for two of those days. The injuries you suffered were...quite catastrophic. How you managed to survive such injuries was shocking at first, but once we took a real look at the-"_

_This man was droning on about things he didn't care. Normally, Shepard wouldn't be so careless, so utterly impatient, but in his current state of mind, there was only one thing he cared about: seeing Tali again. He needed to see her. To feel her presence. To know she was_ _**there** _ _._

_Where was she?_

_Realizing Stoneman wasn't going to be finished anytime soon, and with his impatience overcoming him, Shepard decided to intervene before he lost his temper, which was growing ever more unstable in his delirium, "I'm sorry, doctor, but...where is Tali?"_

_Stoneman seemed taken aback by this, but recovered nonetheless, hands clasping behind his back, "You mean the quarian? She's in the hospital's atrium. She's been trying to gain access to this room for...well, the entire time you've been here actually. The staff weren't really sure what to do about her. She says she's a member of your crew, but I'm afraid that isn't enough to permit her entry. Only next of kin, or a family-"_

_"Let her in," Shepard practically ordered._

_Stoneman, again, looked perturbed by this, like his sense of reality was being shattered one piece at a time. He frowned, "Commander, as I'm trying to tell her, she is-"_

_"She's my girlfriend," Shepard stated non-chalantly, looking up at the doctor, "As far as I'm concerned, I don't give a damn about your hospital policy. I'm sorry doctor, but at this very moment, I've been through a ton of shit. I've survived being blasted, torn apart, shot at, scraped and burned...and on top of that, I lost a man I considered to be a father. So if you could just save me the bullshit and let the one person I want to see right now more than anything, that'd be fucking_ _**great** _ _."_

_Apparently Stoneman had gotten the hint this time, much to his own fortune, because the doctor merely nodded and raised his omni-tool, issuing a command to one of his staff, possibly the receptionist, to let 'the quarian' up. Shepard bristled at the use of the term. It was such a dismissive word. Used by people who didn't care to know the person they referred to, or refused them even the most basic of courtesy. And to hear it in reference to her..._

_He had no idea what was wrong with him. He felt so impatient, so angry, so bloody unrestrained...everything was setting him off. Stoneman's voice, the use of the term 'the quarian', his (pun unintended) stonewalling...Stoneman had no idea just how close he had come to really pissing the commander off, and Shepard wasn't really sure why. He wasn't normally like this. Usually, he prided himself on his self-restraint. It took a lot to piss him off, but this time..._

_A few moments later, and the door shot open, a familiar quarian form darting through and immediately homing in on him. The sight brought a smile to his face, and he felt his anger seep away near instantly as she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him tightly, his head pressed snuggly under her neck. As his anger seeped away, he realized, with a sigh of relief, what had caused him so much anger._

_It wasn't anger. It was frustration. Frustration at being away from her. He had never felt that way before. He had felt this feeling during the first half of the Reaper war, when Tali was still on the Fleet, but he had barely paid attention to it, pinning it solely on a sense of loneliness. And perhaps it was loneliness...but now he realized, with her here, and his growing sense of 'it'll be alright', that it was more than that...it was about completeness too._

_Now that she was here, he felt complete._

_After a moment, Tali pulled a way and stroked his cheek, giggling happily to herself as she moved in again, briefly hugging him once more, "I'm so glad you're alright...you have no idea how terrified I was..."_

_He closed his eyes, his breathing light, "It's alright..._ _**I'm** _ _alright."_

_After a moment, Tali finally pulled away, a bewildered Stoneman still standing across the bed, patiently waiting. Shepard, with his impatience and anger having seeped away, turned to the doctor more diplomatically this time, finding himself calmed by Tali's presence, "I'm sorry about...what I said, doc. You're only doing your job, I understand that. I just...needed to see her. That's all."_

_Stoneman nodded in understanding, raising his datapad with a somewhat grim reluctance, "Actually commander, its probably fortuitous that you have someone close to you nearby for what I'm about to tell you," he turned to Tali next, the quarian stiffening up slightly as she picked up the audible solemnity in his tone, "Miss Zorah, I expect that you hold the commander's utmost confidence. Technically, I'm beholden to patient-doctor confidentiality, and thus can only divulge this information to him in private, or with close family."_

_"I trust her," Shepard piped up in her defense, "Tali has my full confidence. Any information you divulge here can be heard by her, as well."_

_"Yes," Tali added, standing up as she grabbed Shepard's idle left arm, three fingers interlaced with his five, "If Joh-Shepard, says its okay, then I will stay here and here what has to be said."_

_"Very well," Stoneman replied simply, seeing as nothing they said brokered argument, and brought his eyes back to his datapad, finger zipping through likely gigabytes of information as he looked through Shepard's medical report, "Commander...the diagnosis is not good. Suffice to say, you're nothing short of a medical miracle. Any other human would have been destroyed by the punishment you've suffered through. The fact you're still breathing is a testament to the technology used to...well, hold you together, as it were."_

_Shepard knew immediately what he referred to. "My cybernetics," he enunciated, nodding. He didn't like the doctor's tone, but he had a sneaking suspicion that he should have expected some bad news. After all, being buried under several tons of concrete and galvanized steel tended to leave you with more than a few scratches. If Tali and the crew hadn't found him...he might have died there._

_Stoneman continued expounding, Shepard and Tali taking a collective breath as the doctor began. The list of horrendous injuries was near limitless. The way Stoneman explained it, you'd think Shepard was a library of every recorded injury that could be possibly inflicted on the human body, but his mind was too busy focusing on the ones he felt stood out the most to him. The doctor was at least blunt: hearing that both his legs had been crushed was haunting to hear, but not flummoxing, especially when he remembered that a sizable chunk of hardened cement had been trapping his legs for two weeks straight before he was found. But that was only the first of his injuries._

_Every inch of Shepard's skin below his neck had suffered third-degree burns so severe, that his skin had been charred black. Not only that, but his armor had been melted from the heat of Harbinger's attack during the charge on the Beam, eventually hardening and fusing to his skin. His left retina had been severely damaged to the point of snapping, causing him to lose all sight in that eye and leading to limited optical damage. The cybernetics Cerberus had built into him to keep him alive had been pushed to the limit, and therefore most of them failed, forcing the doctors to seek out alternative substitutes until they could be properly replaced or, failing that, repaired. Most of his ribs had been broken, the fingers in his left hand had been nearly shattered, and his right arm has been broken so badly it will need to be amputated and have a replacement cloned. His teeth were also blackened so badly they had to be ripped out._

_It wasn't all bad news, however. The moment Shepard was found and brought to the hospital, the doctors had begun surgery almost immediately to deal with the most life threatening or debilitating of the injuries suffered. For two days, Shepard was on a triage table, teams of doctors tearing away at him in an attempt to save him. His armor was surgically removed from his body to prevent exposure, and the old, destroyed skin was then meticulously sliced from his body and replaced with flash cloned tissue: a temporary replacement until permanent, cloned skin could be manufactured. After that, all his teeth were ripped out and more flash cloned replacements installed. They attempted to fix his left eye, but eventually declared it a lost cause, and simply removed it...and, surprise surprise, another flash cloned substitute. Most of his broken bones were fixed with relative easy, although the shattered fingers of his left hand required more 'duct tape measures' than the rest, and his right arm was such a lost cause that it would have to be cloned and replaced: he'd have to wait for that though, as arms take a while to clone, and a flash clone substitute simply wouldn't render him the same motor function as a fully cloned one would._

_Overall, it was a wonder Shepard was even alive. It was thanks purely to the cybernetics in his body, which would have to be replaced or repaired anyway, that he was alive to hear this diagnosis in the first place. How ironic: one of his greatest foes, who had gone out of their way to try and kill him during the war, had ultimately been the architects of his survival in the end._

_The entire time, while Stoneman affirmed Shepard's state of being, Shepard's attention had been on Tali, worried how she would react. Strangely, she seemed to be taking it well. He had been with Tali long enough to know her mannerisms, and thus was able to largely tell how she felt even with her mask on. From what he could see, she was simply nodding her head along to everything the doctor said. Her real emotional tells were not in her face or upper body, but in her hand: the near death grip she was placing on his right hand was ocassional and sporadic, but everytime it hit, it was after Stoneman had outlined a particularly grevious injury, such as his crushed legs or non-fuctional left eye. While she maintained an aura of taking it in stride, she was secretly bothered by the news._

_So everytime she squeezed his hand, he squeezed right back in reassurance. The gesture said 'it doesn't bother me, so don't let it bother you.'_

_A few minutes later, Stoneman finished his report, lowering his datapad and once again clasping his hands behind his back, "Commander, most of these injuries I've listed are either in the process of healing, being fixed or having cloned replacements built, with flash cloned substitutes temporarily applied in the interim. While the amputation of your right arm is unfortunate, it is necessary, but we will wait until the cloned limb is ready before we begin surgical removal. Most of your cybernetics will need replacement or repairs, but in order to do that, we will need access to the information pertaining to how they work and how they were implanted. As you know, cybernetic augmentation is not only illegal under the Citadel Conventions, but very rare. Only two individuals are known to have had it: you, and the late Kai Leng."_

_The galaxy was largely unaware of his first death, as it wasn't public knowledge. The official story spun by the Council and the Alliance was that he had been MIA for a few months, then returned to Alliance service in secret as a black ops operative to infiltrate Cerberus (this story was spun to justify his previous affiliation with the organization, especially after the UGC's declaration of hostilities with Cerberus during the Reaper war). So it was understandable that Stoneman was none the wiser._

_"Miranda Lawson should be able to help you with that," Tali spoke up for Shepard, drawing Stoneman's attention, "She was part of the organization that installed them in his body, and unfortunately the only surviving member to still be alive. She will be able to assist you. Do you want me to get in contact with her?"_

_The doctor nodded, "That would be helpful. There is one more thing, commander..." Stoneman stated, preparing to leave the room but turning at the last instant, "Your legs...while we will be able to repair them, your right leg has suffered irreversible muscular and tendon-based damage. Most of the nerve endings have been destroyed, and it will take years before even the most basic functionality returns to that limb. Suffice to say, you will be forced to live with a permanent limp for the rest of your life. I'm sure you're aware that this means-"_

_Shepard did indeed know what that meant, "I'm no longer fit for military service. I'll be rendered non-deployable. I do understand the ramifications, doctor."_

_"John, that's..." Tali looked down at him with some sadness, squeezing his hand tighter as she reached over and grasped his cheek with her other hand, "...oh keelah...I'm so sorry."_

_"I'll leave you two alone," Stoneman declared, taking his leave before anyone could voice an objection, not that anyone would. The door closed just as Shepard reached up and clasped her hand, giving a weary smile._

_"I won't lie Tali, it hurts," he admitted, his quarian's gaze remaining firmly attached to his own, "All my life, all I've known, is the military. Rising up the ranks was my only aspiration, my only family was my unit, my only job was to protect, and my only skill was to kill. I was a minister of death, as my drill instructor hammered into me. The Marine Corps and I were synonymous with each other. N7 was my title and my honor. I never thought I'd see the day where I'd be unable to serve any longer..." he trailed off, shaking his head._

_"I'm sure Admiral Hackett could find you a less demanding role," Tali suggested, trying to reassure her near-crippled boyfriend, "You're still a member of the Alliance Navy, yes? Perhaps you can continue as commander of the Normandy, just as-"_

_"Tali, its okay," he held up a hand, forestalling any further suggestions on her part. He smiled, shaking his head, "I'm okay with this. I guess this is just God telling me to tone it down. To rest for once. I've never been much of a religious guy, hell, my parents would be ashamed of what a terrible Jew I've been, but if there was ever a time to be religious..."_

_Tali looked puzzled by that, "Why do you think your...God...did this? Are you saying he intentionally crippled you?"_

_"I'm not..." he began, but cut himself off, "I guess that's not the point...I'm not saying he intentionally crippled me, Tali. I'm not saying he did anything. Its just nice to think that, as a way of saying 'its time to rest', he decided to...to...oh fuck, I don't know what I'm saying, Tali. Just forget I said it."_

_She smiled down at him, stroking his cheek, "You don't need to justify yourself to me, John. If you feel the need to vent..."_

_"I don't," he said solemnly, nodding, "Really, I don't. In fact...I really don't care. I've fought in the Marine Corps for so long, I haven't known any other life. You showed me, for the first time, what a life outside the military could look like. Initially, the idea terrified me. I've never been much of a do-nothing kind of guy. The idea of settling down...its a bit daunting, actually. But if there's anyone I'm willing to take a leap of faith for...its you. So believe me when I say this,_ neh'sah _..."_

_He grasped the hand holding his right with his other hand, holding her smaller manus between his larger ones, and offered the most genuine smile he could muster, "...it doesn't matter to me. My life is with you now. My time with the marines is done...I'm yours now. Now and forever, I promise. From this point forward...you can consider me retired."_

_He heard a sniffle, before Tali leaned down and tapped her visor against his head. Shepard reached up and pulled her down further so he could kiss her roughly where her forehead would be under the mask, before pulling her down and hugging her. The tender moment was broken mere seconds later when a massive presence suddenly jolted the bed, followed by celebratory barking._

_The two of them laughed as Urz, propped up on two legs and using his forward legs to grasp the edge of the bed, proceeded to lick Shepard's face, leaving half his face covered in varren saliva. Initially peaved, he couldn't help but continue to laugh, the varren's excitement contagious among the two as they proceeded to pet and hug the varren, the three of them enjoying their first, official breaths together in a galaxy free of the Reapers._

_He had never felt so free._

* * *

_Rannoch - Present day_.

After what felt like a mere minute, Shepard's eyes were prying open again, finding his sight greeted by the wooden roof of his home on Rannoch. Gone were the sterile white walls of the room he had resided within a year ago, returning him to the present in an unceremonious segue between flashback and reality. The same blurry myopia from before greeted him, but unlike back then, it cleared up much faster, his hearing returning in full force.

The first thing he noticed was the silence. Tali wasn't talking anymore.

Initially suspecting she had left the room when he had fallen asleep, he craned his head to the left only to have his suspicion debunked as he found Tali, head propped up on her right hand, elbow leaning against the floor in support, looking at him, eyes watching his face with rapturous attention. Noticing he was awake, her eyes narrowed slightly, a sign of her smiling, "Welcome back, John."

"How..." he gulped, finding his throat was now dry, pleading with him to consume liquid so it could be satisfied. He licked his lips as he mimicked her movement with the arm, balled fist pinned against his cheek as he looked back at her, "...how long was I...?"

"Only fifteen minutes," she elaborated.

He nodded, before returning the back of his head to the floor, finding himself unwilling or unable to stand up. He just lay there, looking up at the ceiling, Tali's purple veil easily standing out in his peripheral vision.

"You look so peaceful when you sleep," Tali blurted out suddenly, finding herself needing to make the observation, "Even back on the  _Normandy_ , you never looked troubled. When you slept...it was like all that pressure was lifted off your shoulders."

He grinned sheepishly, hands clasped ontop of his stomach, "Well, you may have helped."

"May have?" she replied playfully, nudging him with one of her legs.

"Look, I'm sorry about falling asleep on you before," he replied, "It was rude."

Tali just snorted, "I can hardly blame you for being tired, John. You've worked on this house almost non-stop. And I've been wrapped up in meetings with the Admiralty Board. I think we could both use a rest."

"Yeah..." he sighed wistfully, feeling his eyes beginning to get droopy again, "...a rest would be nice..."

"Any soreness in your right leg?" Tali asked, her playful demeanour dissipating as it morphed into concern, "You've been working on the house quite a lot, and you didn't take a whole lot of time to rest. I'm just worried you'll have a-"

"It feels fine, Tali," he responded, turning to her. Noticing her undaunted look, he sighed, poking her belly lightly. While he understood her concern, he always hated it when she brought this up. All it did was remind him of what he'd physically lost, "Really. I promise, that...incident...won't happen again. Doctor Stoneman didn't even know what to look for back then. We're aware of it now, and I promise you, it'll never happen again," he reached up and kissed her visor, stroking the back of her neck where he knew she loved to be caressed. Even then, he knew it had worked, a low purr from her vocalizer telling him he'd hit the right spot, "I would never intentionally scare you like that, Tali."

"I know," she responded, snuggling up to him with her arms as she brought him closer to her, resting her head on his chest. She sighed with satisfaction as he reached up and played with one of her hands idly, the two of them closing their eyes and paying attention to nothing but the sound of their soft breathing and the steady, but subtle, beat of their hearts. The ocassional chirp of a  _qui'tee_ outside and the distant roar of a  _pesh'o_ in the distance was all the background they could hear.

And then they slept. And this time, they slept long, and they slept peacefully.

The first restful sleep they've had in years.

* * *

_Council Chambers, The Citadel - December 5, 2187_ _._

These Council meetings were beginning to wear thin on the newly minted Spectre. After all, he was a creature of action, and these meetings festered inaction...meaningless reports and frivolous debates. The Spectre thought these things might have changed after the war with the Reapers was over. Instead, if anything, his appointment as Spectre had only increased his exposure to it.

The Council members maintained their usual posture before their four diases in the Council Chambers: their hall of debate, and the closest equivalent to a Hierarchy forum chamber. The human councilor, Dominic Osoba (appointed after Udina's defection and death in the war), stood on the far left, with Sparatus (the turian councilor) to his right, Tevos (asari) next to him, and finally, Valern (salarian) to the far right. All of them assumed the same or similar postures: standing straight with hands clasped behind their backs or, as Osoba was informally doing, leaning against his console, hands braced against it as he typed away at it, the orange glow of the terminal illuminating his pearly eyes as he scrolled through the text sifting through his screen.

They had been staring at their screens for nearly half an hour now, saying nothing, while their Spectre stood there looking like an idiot, having already read and re-read the information verbatim twice now, now waiting for them to finish their own dissemination of the facts before they could continue. Sometimes, in moments like these, he really hated being a Spectre. It seems he spent more time making reports than he did actually going out and...Spectre-ing.

_At least three Spectres recommended me for this post. I know Shepard was one of them, but who are the other two? Could Ashley have recommended me? If so, whose the third? Spirits, Shepard, why did I let you rope me into this..._

Garrus Vakarian, Archangel of Omega, former military advisor to the war cabinet of Primarch Adrien Victus, now a Council Spectre...damned if Shepard wasn't right about how overrated the position was.

_You can do whatever you want to get the job done, no red tape. Except for when you break a law the Council really likes, or piss off somebody the Council likes, or provide evidence for the treason committed by a particular Spectre the Council really likes...moral of the story: if the Council likes it, Spectre or not, you're fucked if you cross it. 'No lines to cross' my spiky turian ass._

The report he had provided in question was an update on the status of the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance group, principally regarding its logistical, financial and combat effectiveness areas. The Spectres had been significantly downgraded in size since the final battle on Earth had taken place, and thus the status of the Council's favourite go-to clandestine, extralegal peacekeeping agency was of utmost interest to them. After all, without the Spectres, the Citadel Council would lose the shadowy hand in which it had relied upon to keep galactic peace for thousands of years.

The scope of every single Spectre operation, including dossiers on each active and deceased Spectre, was brought to bear before the Council and combed through meticulously to iron out kinks they deem to be unacceptable in the tenebrous organization, and emphasize strength in areas stronger than others. It was a tedious affair, one that required complete concentration and patience, and one that had Garrus standing around watching the councilors as they silently and ponderously referenced their consoles.

Luckily, he wasn't kept long. Sparatus, the councilor Shepard had pegged as 'his ever faithful devil's advocate' in one humorous conversation, turned from his console, mandibles flexing slightly in confusion, "One detail in Shepard's dossier gets my interest, Spectre Vakarian."

 _Oh spirits, here we go..._ Garrus had expected this question would come, but had been hoping they'd let sleeping dogs lie (he didn't know what a dog was or why they should be allowed to sleep, but it was the phrase that mattered to him, not the context) and gloss over it. Unfortunately, few were so lucky, and the Council remained steadfast to their anti-Shepard attitude in descending upon every detail of Shepard's life with hawkish ferocity, almost as if deliberately seeking out trouble with the man.

_Even after saving their asses and the asses of the entire spirits-be-damned galaxy, the Council still finds bones to pick with him. I can sorta see why he quit._

"Yes, Spectre, this is quite troubling," Valern stated in support of his turian colleague, large salarian eyes peering up from under his ceremonial dalatrass hood to peer at Garrus, "It appears this dossier has Shepard listed as 'Retired'. Surely this is the work of a misfile. A clerical error."

 _Yeah, they're not backing off. Spirits Shepard, why couldn't you have done this yourself?_ Clearing his throat, he shook his head, preparing for the storm that would soon be upon him, "No error, councilor. Commander Shepard has resigned not just from the Special Tactics branch, but from the Alliance military as well. As of six months ago, he is no longer in active service."

"Why were we not informed of this?" Tevos immediately demanded, the asari looking ever so slightly irritated at this turn of events, an attitude the normally calm, collected and regal asari was not commonly associated with. However, considering the recent situation with the asari, it was obvious why she looked so stressed: the recent media coverage of the asari black ops Athame project that was disclosed to authorities post-war had been a PR disaster for the Republics, with many demanding sanctions on the asari, heavy tariffs on imported and exported goods to asari space, and in the more over-the-top spectrum, even calling for a censure from the turians, salarians and humans disavowing the action, and the immediate removal of the asari from the Council. While the asari hadn't lost their seat, they were certainly losing political clout, the near cultural, economic and technological dominance they had once enjoyed being stripped from them as the beacon found on Thessia was later recovered and removed by the salarian STG as per Citadel law. The asari were, as Shepard would put it, 'in the hot seat.' It was a situation that was clearly getting the better of Tevos, "As the Council, all Spectre candidacies and resignations are passed through us for approval. Why was this not done? Who approved this?"

"I'd like to know as well," Osoba piped in, not one to be left out of the verbal slapping contest.

"All five members of the SPECTRE Ops Command approved it, of which Shepard  _was_ a member, you'll remember," Garrus reminded, coming close to having chastized the Council without intending it. Dealing with these people was always easier when Shepard was doing it, but now that he was the one slapping the Council's proverbial bums...well, it was an entirely new ballpark, "Myself, Spectre Williams, Spectre Bau, Spectre Maerun and Spectre Edorev unanimously voted in favour of it. As for not informing you, it was believed that given the current workload, it would be more efficient to have us handle it instead of wasting the Council's time with such a frivolous activity as approving a Spectre's retirement."

The SPECTRE Ops Command was a recent development, an idea that both Shepard, Ashley and a bunch of other Spectres had come up with. It was clear that having no clear command structure for the Spectres was a mistake: the actions of Saren Arterius, Tela Vasir and (at least in the galaxy's eyes), Shepard, had long since proven that the Spectres, as long as they remained lone operators, would continue to have defectors, rogue elements and traitors. SPECTRE OPSCOM, or Special Tactics and Reconnaissance Operations Command in full, was a group of five of Spectres who acted as the group's regulatory and command apparatus. These five Spectres would pick potential Spectre candidates, evaluate them in a rigorous vetting exercise, and then present them to the Council for approval into their ranks. These Big Five could also vote to remove members or have members arrested, acting as a sort of 'internal affairs' group for the Spectres, keeping them in line and ensuring all Spectre operations were documented, reported upon and watched. Gone were the days where a Spectre could do whatever they pleased with only the ocassional report back to the Council. Now, they were constantly being watched. Free to operate as they did originally, but obligated to report daily.

It wasn't perfect, but it worked. Shepard and Williams were of course voted to be the first, and not long after, they were joined by Jondam Bau, Lonar Maerun and Imarh Edorev. Of course, that had changed when Shepard announced his retirement to the group three months later (and not-too-subtlely told them to not inform the Council so he could, quote on quote, 'sneak away without being bothered.') and left for Rannoch with Tali, having Garrus promoted to Spectre in his place.

Still, it wasn't too bad. After all, he got to vote in his first geth spectre just last week, a geth platform calling itself Churchill, after some famous historical human leader of the 20th century apparently. The geth had wanted a larger role in galactic affairs, and believed inserting one of their own into the ranks of such a prestigous group would help things. Smart choice. And Churchill certainly was...eccentric, to be sure.

His answer didn't seem to satisfy the Council, with Valern quickly speaking up, "While we appreciate your delicacy in handling this matter internally, we did not approve OPSCOM just so you could undermine our authority. When a Spectre resigns, especially one such as  _Commander Shepard_ , we wish to know about it. To have such things occur under our noses is unacceptable."

"And quite frankly," Osoba announced, trying not to be undercut by his fellow councilors, "I'm a bit miffed that humanity's first, and arguably most significant, Spectre has retired without any notice to us, and has mysteriously vanished. An explanation to this Council for his actions is warranted."

"Agreed. In fact," Sparatus spoke up, turning to face Garrus fully, "This Council would appreciate it if Commander Shepard would be recalled to explain his actions, as well as to evaluate his combat effectiveness. A man with his stature cannot simply sneak off without-"

"I'm sorry councilors, but I must advise against this," he interrupted, finding his irritation peaking with this group.  _Can they not understand?_ "If you wish to know where Commander Shepard is, I will tell you. He is on Rannoch, building a house for both himself and Tali'Zorah vas Normandy, who he is in a relationship with. He has assured me that any attempt by the Council to bring him in will be met with a staunch reminder that he is retired, deemed medically unfit for combat duty in the Alliance military, and thus wouldn't make an effective Spectre, and that the Council cannot order a retired Spectre to return to active service, as they are no longer under their purview."

"Watch yourself, Spectre," Sparatus warned, his tone falling dangerously low as he regarded his fellow turian, "You do not-"

"The OPSCOM has already voted on the issue and come to an agreement," Garrus cut off, unwilling to allow the charade to continue, "As such, all five members, other than me, have voted unanimously to approve the retirement, the reasons for it and the necessity of it. As the Council only needs to be approached when approving new Spectres, I therefore deem it necessary to remind this Council that, by the authority invested in the OPSCOM by the Council itself, it cannot force Shepard to return to service, nor do you have the jurisdiction to do so."

The Council was silent, lost for answers. For the first time, they had nothing to say in response, only response. Garrus suppressed the involuntary smug grin that was trying to peel across his mandibles.  _Damn, that felt good._

After a moment, the asari councilor sighed, and nodded, "It appears that Commander Shepard's isolationism is something we can do nothing about, councilors. If he wishes to live the rest of his days on Rannoch beyond the reach of this Council...so be it."

"I concur," Valern reluctantly obliged.

"As do I," Sparatus practically hissed.

Osoba clenched his fists, then nodded, "I...very well. Shall we...continue evaluating these documents?"

And so Garrus watched as the Council continued, this time far happier, due to his smug victory over the Council. And it'd be good to let Shepard know the Council won't be sending spectres after him to try and bring him back to service. He knew Shepard would regret having to send them back in body bags.

An hour later, and Garrus finally made his way back to his office in the newly established OPSCOM offices, located to the right of the water fountain in the main atrium. Using his special ID registration software on his omni-tool, the turian slipped through the door with practiced ease, giving a brief nod in the direction of Spectre Bau, who was seated behind his desk, legs propped up ontop of it, typing at his terminal one handed. Bau spared him a brief nod before returning to his duties. Their new member, Churchill, was nowhere to be found, so Garrus had to assume it was either out on a 'test run', or at the Rannochian embassy on the Presidium. Passing through a series of desks, he finally reached his, opened the door, and stepped inside.

The place was a mess, as was typical for Garrus since his days working for C-Sec. Datapads were stacked as high as five across his desk, while two terminals sat next to each other, one angled more diagonally, both inactive. The light overhead flickered on in reaction to his presence, and he sighed as he walked around the desk and sunk into his seat, typing at the holographic keys on the desk's surface to begin the booting up sequence for one of his primary terminal. He was turning to turn on the vidscreen behind him to check the local news when he noted something odd.

The chair that was normally sat down behind infront of his desk and used for consultations was tilted...to the point where it was hovering in mid air and practically violating the laws of physics.

There could only be one answer to this magical feat, and as Garrus narrowed his eyes, he saw it.

A flicker.

"This the part where you scare me?" Garrus drawled, finding himself smiling. He leaned back himself, crossing his arms.

No answer.

"Come on, are we playing this trick again? The whole 'if I don't answer, he'll think he's going paranoid and go back to what he's doing' routine?'"

This time, a mischevious feminine voice answered him, "It worked last time."

"Use the same tactic over and over and people tend to catch on."

"You're too slow to catch on, Garbear."

"You know that nickname only works when people are around to laugh at it."

A small giggle, "You got me there, Garry."

He laughed, shaking his head, "Can you please turn the cloak off? I feel silly talking to thin air."

"Ohhhh...you're no fun."

A moment later, a crackle was heard, followed by a burst of electricity as the shroud that had cloaked the person in question was lifted, revealing the black-suited form of a hooded human female, her feet kicked up on the desk and, indeed, leaning back in the chair. She grinned underneath the dark shadow the hood cast over her, the tattoo on her lower lip shining in the light of the room.

He shook his head, turning away from the vidscreen to focus fully on her, "How long have you been waiting here, Kasumi?"

She shrugged, swiping up a datapad from his desk and proceeding to read through it, leaning her head back so it looked up at the ceiling in a display remarkably similar to an impatient child who couldn't sit still for more than five minutes and had a huge attention deficit, "Oh...roughly an hour. Got bored of totally-not-being-a-thief and decided to come down here and see if I could annoy you for a while. Apparently you were busy getting annoyed by the Council instead, so I thought I'd wait here until you get back."

He sighed, rubbing his head. A human mannerism he'd picked up during his travels on the  _Normandy_ , "And I'm sure you asked Bau kindly for permission to access this building while you satisfied your boredom." His sarcasm couldn't be thicker if he tried.

"And what, lose my edge?" Kasumi snorted, dropping the datapad out of disinterest as she suddenly brought the chair back down to the ground with a thud, the thief using her momentum to propel from her seat, land on her feet and begin to walk around the desk and over to him. Her smile was pertinent, "Besides, I'm not going to reveal myself to the Spectre who was hunting me down only a year ago. That'd be silly."

She reached him after a moment, hands on her hips as she looked down at him expectantly. He gave her a playful twitch of the mandible, the turian equivalent of a raised eyebrow, and he crossed his arms, leaning back, "My, my, I may have to turn you in, Miss Goto."

Kasumi rolled her eyes and leaned forward, bringing her face inches from his, her eyes piercing his, "You'd have to catch me first Vakarian, and we both know you're too slow."

"Is that true? How about now?"

Suddenly, his arms were around her, keeping her from escaping. But contrary to what their playful banter suggested, Kasumi had no intention of trying to get away. In fact, she got closer now, grinning the entire time as she kissed him firmly on his forehead. The turian followed up by tapping her forehead with his own, before reaching up and pulling down her hood.

He drank in every feature of her face as she wrapped her arms around him, planting herself firmly in his lap. They had been together for a while now, having started their relationship during the Reaper war. The two had barely talked to each other during the Collector campaign, but after the Collector Base assault, they found a newfound respect for each other, and spent nearly every moment post-battle and pre-Aratoht getting to know each other. And some point during the war, they had just clicked. He wasn't sure exactly when it occurred. Hell, he didn't care. All he knew was that there was a connection between them, and he had thrown all caution to the wind in being with her.

The failed C-Sec cop and a master thief. His father would have a fit if he found out. Or, rather,  _when_ he found out.

 _Not looking forward to_ _**that** _ _conversation._

He took a moment to explore her features. Long, black hair tied in a bun just behind her hood, with smooth, tanned cheeks and supple lips, a small nose and small, hazel eyes. The tattoo on her lower lip was likely cultural, a remnant of a nation on Earth she hailed from called 'Japan'. However, what captured his attention now was the small, white scar tissue adorning the otherwise smooth skin on her right cheek, and the long, wicked looking scar reaching from her lower neck up to her ear. He remembered how she got those wounds well: it had been during the final battle. The cheek scar was from a piece of shrapnel from an explosion that had grazed her, and the more wicked looking scar was from the uppercut of a Banshee, an enemy Kasumi had gotten a bit too close too, and who she had barely escaped impalement from, the well-timed burst from James' Spitfire saving her life.

They all had scars from the war, but seeing them on someone who was as far from a soldier as one could get...it reminded one just how desperate the Reaper war had become. To the point where the final battle in London was fought with every last soldier and person who could hold a gun they could get.

After a full minute of nudging each other intimately, they both parted, with Kasumi now straddling his waist, running her fingers along his facial plates while his hands held her firmly by her hips. After a moment, the silence was broken by Kasumi speaking up.

"You know, we haven't seen Shepard and Tali in a while," she illustrated.

He nodded, frowning, "Can't believe its been that long. We haven't seen them in...what, seven months?"

"Sounds about right."

A few more moments passed, and Kasumi's grin returned in full force, "I mean, we  _could_ pay them a visit..."

He shook his head, rubbing his talons gently up and down her back, careful not to tear her clothing, "We  _could,_ but  _should_ we?"

"I don't see the problem!" she announced, "Besides, I haven't seen Fishbowl in ages, and I've missed our talks. And I'm sure you miss...doing whatever it is you do with Shepard. Do you calibrate together?"

"You are relentless," he exclaimed with mirth, standing up and lifting her off his lap and onto her feet.

"But I'm right," she replied, bumping her eyebrows up and down comically as she crossed her arms.

"You...are right," he sighed, bracing against his desk as he shoved aside a column of pads, "I've missed the entire crew, if I'm honest. It'd be nice to catch up with the old gang, see what they're up to. There's only so much you can read about it in news reports. And Shepard...he's not in the news at all. The last media article that even mentioned him was one speculating on where he might be...none of which are correct, mind you."

"What do they say?"

"One theorizes he's 'run off with his asari lover to live his life on Thessia,'" he quoted, trying not to laugh, "I bet Liara got a kick out of that one. Oh, and the one about how he's 'embraced his inner lion with his tattooed dominatrix and run off to help teach her 'good manners'. Oh boy, I can't imagine who Jack will murder when she reads  _that_ article."

" _Dominatrix_?"

"I did not make that up, by the way. The article used that specific term."

The two of them laughed for several seconds before reining in their amusement, Garrus shaking his head as he moved to sit back down, "A reunion sounds nice, actually. Perhaps we can even surprise them. I'm sure they won't mind. We could even arrange a larger reunion with the entire crew later on."

"Sounds good, Garbear," Kasumi replied, grabbing him by the scruff of his shirt and proceeding to press her lips against his mandibles. He tried to return the kiss back as best he could, but human lips were nearly incompatible with turian mandibles, and as such, it was difficult to emulate. Kasumi didn't seem bothered however, simply wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him close enough that their temples touched. The look in her eyes left him no doubt on what she wanted.

He was happy to oblige.  _Got nothing better to do anyways._

And so, he lifted her clear off the decking, her legs wrapped around his waist instantly, as he turned and deposited his cargo on his desk, the two lovers locking their faces together once more in a fit of growing passion.

Good thing the walls were soundproofed.

* * *

_SAAF Rehabilitation and Treatment Facility, France, Earth - December 6, 2187._

"Sir, could you answer the question?"

The man blinked. He sniffed, rubbing his nose absentmindedly as he turned back to address the subject in question. He sat in a dark, dank room, a small air conditioner bleating out cool air silently on the wall, a modest desk housing a small terminal in the middle, a small window permitting sunlight entry into the room, opened ever so slightly to air out the hot room. A simple 20 inch vidscreen rested on the wall, and the carpet was a green-yellowy pastel color. The room was boring and horrendous to look at, non-descript in everyway, perfect for the office of a psychologist. Of a shrink.

Turning back around, he found himself face to face with the woman questioning him, a lady whose description matched that of her office. Plaid clothes, mediocre face, average existence. She looked at him like one addressed a terrorist in a hostage situation: with delicacy, a tad of patronization and a shit load of insecurity. Her wrinkled expression did nothing to satiate his urge to not run from the room.

_But I need to get out of here. I have much to do. People I must see._

_No, a person. One person. What was his name? I can't remember. Right on the tip of my tongue..._

_Samson? No, this person has an important name. A memorable one. Not one you can easily forget. Strickland? It starts with S...I know it does. Goddamn it, if only I could remember..._

The vexatious woman clicked her fingers, like she was calling a dog to sit. Before she could make her asinine demand again, he spoke, making sure to talk over her, "Once again doc, I feel fine. Renewed even. The medicine has had the desired effect, and I no longer feel as I did. I'm right as rain, as they say."

The doctor slumped, but nodded her acceptance of this, typing it onto her terminal. Reading over it a few more times, the man rolled his eyes, fidgeting as he tapped his leg with one finger idly, like emulating a drumbeat. An itch ground itself into his black haired scalp, and he found himself scratching at it incessantly to get it to stop. It was satisfied for now, so he straightened his rain jacket and readjusted his cap, the jet black, unremarkable hat shielding his eyes from the intense rays of Sol that were reflecting off a nearby mirror almost directly into his face. He winced, but recovered. Inside, his internal debate raged.

_Sherden? Sherman? Sherelden? Shit, shit, shit...shit! Got to remember! What was it?_

For the past month and a half he had spent in this rehab facility, recovering from his PTSD during the Reaper war, the man had found the name of a single man eluding him, and the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to tease him and never reveal itself. For some reason, he just had to know the name of this man, and make it his mission to find him. But first...he needed a name...

"You say you haven't had any recurrences?" the doctor asked, hands planted firmly on the desk infront of her, "No more headaches, for example?"

He shook his head, "The doctors say I haven't had any recurrences. And thanks to those...pills...you've prescribed me, I feel better than ever. Those migraines are gone. I no longer feel so much immense pain anymore." The pills had indeed helped: they were apparently a pill-form of a drug from the 21st century that was originally used via injections, but had since evolved into a more effective, pill-based alternative that made it easier for digestion and widespread use. If he got out,  _when_ he got out, he would be prescribed a regular monthly dosage until his migraines faded away completely.

"The dihydroergotamine is doing its job then. Good," the psychologist replied, typing this into her terminal.

_Sherapad. Sherparen. Shessel. Wait...no, there's a 'p' there somewhere. Yes, that sounds right. Something with a 'p'..._

Finally, the doctor spoke up once final time, breaking his thoughts as she twitched off her terminal, standing up as she straightened her shirt, "Well sir, considering the traumatic ordeal you've been through, you're the picture of health. We will, as recommended, prescribe you the annual medication you need to keep the migraines at bay, and you can contact your local GP if you need further doses: we will make sure you're added to the list. As I have no further reason to keep you here, you are free to go."

He shot up, immediately reaching up to shake her head. She froze for a second, and he recognized the stint of fear in her eyes for a brief second, only for it to disappear as she adopted a weary, and obviously fake, smile as she reached out and accepted his offered hand, shaking it gently, before retreating behind her desk, "I've informed the guard outside that you have permission to go. He will escort you from the facility."

"Thank you, doctor," he replied, before meekly turning and leaving the room. Once outside, the guard in question, an Alliance marine in nothing but his BDU and with a predator side arm strapped to his side and firmly seated in its holster, turned and nodded for him to follow. The man did as he was instructed, following behind the marine without question, his own battle of thoughts continuing to rage unabated and unheard.

_No no no...none of those names sound right. But there must be something! This man has occupied my thoughts for a month and a half! Surely there must be a reason for it! Some purpose I must fulfill, some deed left undone, a person I must thank, or help, or seek out...damn it, why can't I remember their damn name! I can remember a gender, but not a name!_

What he would even do if he found out this person's name was even more baffling. Would he thank him? For what exactly? Perhaps he'd ask this person for a job, or for forgiveness for a past misdeed. He didn't know what to do if this occurred, and that only infuriated him further. No answers were yielded to him. Was there somekind of prerequisite he had to meet first?

They were soon at the back gate. The marine signalled for him to wait, and then walked forward, wrapping his knuckles on the door three times. The sound of sliding metal could be heard a moment afterwards, followed by a click. The marine spoke to someone on the other side of the door, but the man was too busy looking all over the corridor, fascinated by his new surrounding. He hadn't seen this part of the installation before.

But then his eyes saw it. Right on the wall, a holo advertisement. More specifically, one for the Systems Alliance Marine Corps. Normally, he'd ignore such advertisements as mindless rubbish undeserving of his visual observation, but something about it captivated him. He got closer, taking in more details of it as he got closer. He depicted a single man, head-to-toe in Alliance standard issue HYPERION-87 combat armor, clad in the blue and black that were the Alliance's colors. His helmet was removed however, revealing the man underneath: a black haired, strong looking marine with a smile on his face, pointing directly at the reader of the advertisement. Below it read the words:

'The Reapers may be gone, but our problems aren't. We need you now more than ever, citizen of Earth. Join the Alliance military today, and we won't just give you an experience, we'll give you a career. And if that's not enough, remember that Commander Shepard himself needs you to pick up the slack. Don't wait, sign up today!"

He didn't read the rest of the advertisement past the words 'Commander Shepard'. Something clicked in his head, and the stream of name suggestions stopped.

Commander Shepard.

Shepard.

 _ **Shepard**_.

_That's his name. Commander Shepard. This man...this man is the one I have to look for._

He felt a presence beside him, a shadow looming over him, and he managed to tear his attention away from the advertisement to the marine now standing right beside him, looking at him with frustration, "You deaf? I said you're clear to leave. Head through the door."

"Oh..." he turned, seeing that the door was open, beams of sunlight streaking through the doorway to illuminate them both, the marine on the otherside of the door now waiting to close it. He nodded meekly, licking his lips, "...of course." He then began walking towards the door.

The marine rolled his eyes. " _Crétin sanglant_ ," he muttered under his breath. The man's translator did all the work for him in translating the Frenchman's insult, but the man did nothing in response. Assaulting a marine would not do well for his claim of psychological fitness, nor did he particularly care to do it. He was a man on a mission, and he would not allow anyone to stop him now.

Emerging through the door into a large courtyard, the marine behind him returned inside, while the guard closed the door, locking it shut, and sliding the cover across again. He then turned back around and assumed parade rest position, head held high and looking directly ahead. The man paid him no mind: he was too busy contemplating his newfound freedom, the size of the courtyard before him, and his new goal. The man he needed to see.

Shepard.

He wasted no time in opening his omni-tool, quickly typing away as he tried to access the extranet. Unfortunately, being inside the facility's walls meant he wasn't able to secure a connection and soon, his omni-tool beeped at him angrily as he failed to get a connection. Deciding he'd have to wait until he was outside, he picked up his stride, a newfound confidence surging through him as he realized what he needed to do.

_Shepard. I must find this Shepard. And when I do..._

_...what will I do?_

Despite not knowing the actual reasoning behind his mission, he somehow knew all would become clear to him in time. He didn't know what was more frightening: not knowing, but not caring, or knowing that all would become clear to him once he sought this man out.

Regardless, he picked up his pace, practically fast walking towards the exit, eager to have his first taste of freedom in a month and a half, and to seek out his objective.

_Shepard._

_Shepard..._

_Commander_ _**Shepard** _ _._

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**And there's our first official chapter of Equilibrium. This chapter was to establish who our main characters are, what their state of mind is, and of course, introduce our villain. You may not think much of him yet, but you soon will. You may have also noticed I refused to identify him. There's a reason for that, and you'll just have to find out! (intrigue is fun!)** _

_**If there's one lesson and mistake I made with FABT, it was that Holocaust didn't focus enough on the MShep/Tali romance. I got so lost in the world-building that I forgot to have really meaningful moments for just those two. In this story, I'm going to rectify that by making them the centerpiece, and instead of having them merely share the centerstage with other characters, I'll simply reduce the amount of characters featured and make them the main stars. Consider this a return to form.** _

_**I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that you look forward to the next one! I'll be doing a Flashpoint prompt next as promised (this one from Ulfbrandt), and then Chapter 2 will come after that.** _

_**And, like last time, some music suggestions** _ _:_

 **The Shepard Residence: "Climbing For A Kiss" by Rupert Gregson-Williams from the film** _**Hacksaw Ridge.** _

**The Diagnosis: "True Arbiter" by Martin O'Donnell and Michael Salvatori from the mini-anime series** _**Halo Legends.** _

**Garrus and Kasumi: "Forgotten Memories" by Gustavo Santaolalla from the game** _**The Last of Us** _ **.**

 **Released: "Entering Zero-G" by Jason Graves from the game** _**Dead Space** _ **.**


	3. Atrophy of the Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard's injury begins to anger him. Not so far away, a mysterious figure watches the house. Garrus and Kasumi pay Shepard and Tali a visit.

" _It is pardonable for children to yell that they believe in fairies, but it is somehow sinister when the piping note shifts from the puerile to the senile."_ \- Christopher Hitchens.

* * *

_Royal London Hospital, England, Earth - November 30, 2186 - A month and a half since Shepard's retrieval._

_His legs were on fire._

_Not literally of course, but the difference was a little extraneous in his mind at the moment. Every single fibre of his body cried out in blisteringly loud agony, flooding his veins with an intense ache, fueled on by a stinging and incessant mental demand that his body acquiesce immediately. For a few brief seconds, he even contemplated the exact consequences of giving into such impulses._

_But he would have none of it. He was determined to push on. He couldn't, and wouldn't, give up. He was Commander Shepard._

_And right now, his biggest enemy was his own body, and the few meters he had left to walk._

_A month and a half after his procedure, and he was still barely recovering. Almost every single part of his body that had needed cloning had been and was now firmly attached to his body, although his body was still getting used to the new appendage: apparently, cloned limbs tended to take a while to respond appropriately to the body they were attached to, and as such, the signals sent from the brain to the arm to command it to move were more sluggish, and sometimes, neurons would misfire, causing his arm to twitch erratically, or move against his wishes. It would take at least another month or two before his body finally accepted the new limb and he could use it properly._

_However, cloned limbs were hardly his biggest problem right at this moment. His legs had been largely the only thing the doctors had been able to reconstruct: thanks to Miranda, some of his cybernetics were successfully brought back online, and were augmented with newer, purely medical implants. With the help of these cybernetics and a little reconstructive surgery, his legs were fixed within a month, with two weeks afforded to them so that the implants could do their work and so his body could grow accustomed to functioning legs again. And now, a month and a half later, he was taking his first steps on his feet again._

_He might as well have dipped his legs in a pit of fire._

_Just sitting up on the bed, his legs touching the floor, had almost made him give up. The pain was like having two massive cinderblocks tied to his legs, whilst simultaneously pushing in from both sides. He had exhaled deeply, vision brightening white hot as he almost blacked out, groaning pathetically as he bit back a ragged yell. He would not show weakness. Not to anyone. And with Doctor Stoneman watching him during his therapy, he was unwilling to push himself to the point where that weakness could potentially seep through the cracks._

_But just as he had been ready to give up, someone who understood had immediately noticed his hesitation and conferred with Stoneman privately. One heated argument later, and Tali had plucked the datapad from the man, and he had ceremoniously left the room. Whatever she had said to him must have stuck, and she turned to Shepard, reaching over to gently grasp his shoulder reassuringly and with some encouragement, datapad placed on the bed._

_"Rise," she had whispered, "Nobody will see but me. Its okay. You can do this, John. Rise."_

_Despite his initial reluctance, he had felt his spirits lifted by hearing that: as if it was an affirmation of something he had felt, but wasn't initially willing to act upon. In that moment, the pain seemed negligible. After all, he was an N7. He had tackled varren in hand-to-hand, battled shotgun-wielding krogan, tangoed with geth primes, destroyed legions of mercenaries, and, to top it off, had destroyed a race of sentient dreadnoughts._

_What was one stroll from one side of the room to another really worth compared to all of that? Would he really let_ _**that** _ _of all things be the thing to defeat him?_

_Tali's conviction that he could do it was communicable, apparently. He had given her a brief nod before his brain had caught up with his actions, accepting his new mission without giving it further thought. He needed to reassure her he was alright. She needed to know he would recover, that he wasn't lost to her. This was for her, as much as it was for him._

_And so he rose. He bit down on his lip, he almost screamed, briefly contemplated collapse as black tendrils crawled into his vision, but he pressed on. He had a mission. He must complete the mission._

_And he kept rising. Until he was standing. His legs shook with the weight placed on them, body practically barking at him to stand down. But he was not a subordinate to his body. He was the commanding officer. His brain gave the orders, his body followed._

_So he gave the orders: all forward. Engage the enemy._

_His enemy was just a few meters. It might as well have been several kilometers._

_So now here he was, feebly trying to make his way across the room. Tali was at his side the entire time, occasionally whispering firm but sweet motivations into his ear whenever she felt he was faltering or unwilling to go forward. She was a constant presence at his side, watching him indefatigably throughout what felt like his personal, hellish marathon. It was here he felt the most pathetic: barely able to place one foot in front of the other. Despite these pessimistic thoughts however, he could feel it getting easier with each step, despite the unyielding, relentless pain constantly sapping his stamina. The blackness in his vision remained prominent, but he persisted through it, the goal he had set for himself being paramount._

_He would defeat this physical therapy._

_It quickly dawned on him, as he progressed across the med room, just what Tali must have said to Stoneman. She must have sensed his hesitance at committing to therapy infront of the doctor: knowing that the slightest fault could lead to him face planting on the ground, inevitably humiliating him. Tali understood this and had insisted on taking over the therapy for his benefit: hence why she had taken the datapad. The thought actually brought a smile to his face, and a sort of electrifying new jolt of energy surged through him, briefly numbing his discomfort._

_God he loved her._

_"Come on John," she whispered once again, shaking Shepard from his thoughts as he looked up. He was on the other side of the room, looking back at his bed and facing its direction. Tali was watching him curiously. Shepard couldn't remember how he had managed to get there without collapsing, especially given the unending torment his legs were berating him with. That bed was his final goal: at some point during his therapy, one of the nurses must have brought in a tray of food, as one now lay on the bench next to his bed, a steaming cup of coffee along with what looked like pre-wrapped dried biscuits and a basic sandwich sitting in the middle. Hospital food. It promised to be as disgusting as his body knew it would be._

_His stomach grumbled. Looked like his body didn't give a shit this time, desperately wanting to satisfy its hunger, regardless of how tasteless the actual sustenance turned out to be._

_Noticing he still hadn't moved, a hand landed on his cheek, and he turned his head slowly to face her. His brain took sometime to process the information going through his head, so when he initally saw an unmasked face looking back at him, he didn't question it. He simply stood there, smiling dopishly back at the beautiful face he was confronted with. Silvery eyes, raven black hair cut short and barely going past her neck, pointed elf-like ears, greyish skin, a series of freckles along her smooth cheeks, small reddish lips, an equally small nose, and a series of what looked to be tattooed black lines running down the front of her forehead and ending just above her eyes, before beginning again just under her chin, and continuing behind her mask, where he knew they ended just above her breasts._

_His admiration of the beautiful sight was broken when his body finally caught up with his mind._

_She wasn't wearing a mask. Contamination. Exposure. Sickness._

_His eyes widened and his mouth opened, but before he could say anything, she reached up and placed a finger over his lips. While he could easily keep talking, he chose to shut up, understanding the gesture well enough as she spoke, her unfiltered accent calming to his red hot nerves, "Its okay, John. This room is sterilized. The only person whose bacteria could effect me right now is you, and I've already adapted to you. And Urz is...well, outside, so he won't be a problem."_

_She reached forward and gave him a quick peck on the lips, Shepard closing his eyes to enjoy the sensation of her lips on his before she pulled back. She looked back at him, stroking his cheek adoringly, "I know you want to sit down John, but you must do this. Your bed is right there, and I know you must be hungry."_

_He nodded meekly, sighing, "Its not that I don't want to do it, its just...my body is so_ _**against** _ _it. I feel like I have concrete tied to each leg, Tali."_

 _"I know it hurts," she replied sympathetically, removing her hand from his cheek, "Its your job to_ _**make** _ _your body want to do it. Its only your first day of therapy, John. You can't expect your legs to work as they did before just like that."_

 _He knew that was true, but there was more to it. He knew his legs would never work as they used to ever again. He would have a permanent limp, the doctor said, and so far, that hadn't changed, even with the cybernetics in his limbs. Knowing this however didn't help anything, and he knew that if he wanted to even walk_ _**at all** _ _again, he would need to complete the physical therapy and do it at least once a day. And this was just learning to walk again...he really wasn't looking forward to all the other exercise he would be doing in the months to come._

_Above all else though, he knew he needed to do this. He refused to be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. To be wheeled around by Tali like somekind of...cripple. If he had the ability to at least walk again, then he had to try. Even if it felt like he was being torn asunder._

_"You're right. Healing will take time," he gave an explosive sigh, finding himself with his right arm draped around her shoulders as support, his vision hazy and unbalanced as he tilted from side to side, ever so slightly. He felt nauseous: gulping, he could almost taste the acidic stench of phantom bile, although the distinct lack of saliva buildup in his mouth was a clear indication he would not be regurgitating his breakfast. He looked to her finally, giving her the best, most confident smile he could manage, "But today...I think just getting to that bed will be enough."_

_She grinned back at him, turning to look at the bed in question: his seemingly insurmountable goal. Lying in plain sight, awaiting his arrival, but almost entirely beyond his reach in his current condition. Turning back to him, her smile never diminishing, she gave him a firm nod, "That's the Shepard I know. Never giving up. So how about we finish this so you can eat?"_

_His grin was stronger now, the strained mark on his lips now altered into a more genuine expression, Shepard feeling significantly better than he had when he had begun the therapy session. Clad in a white hospital gown, he hardly looked the part of the daring and invincible Commander Shepard, "Well, I could use some motivation."_

_Noticing his impish tone, he could see Tali reflexively roll her eyes: a human trait she had learnt from her time among a human crew, and from being around him. She turned to him with a raised eyebrow, although a hint of a smile still existed on her features, indicating that she wasn't entirely onboard with his suggestion, "You haven't been motivated enough?"_

_"Not at all. You know what?" he could feel the more witticist, bantering side of him beginning to reemerge in that moment, all the self doubt and annoyance at himself for his perceived uselessness beginning to be cleansed internally from his mind, "I think I could curl up on this very spot and rest."_

_The quarian, exasperated, could only shake her head with mirth, amused by Shepard's attempt to introduce some levity to the therapy session. Looking back at him, she nodded, giving a single shrug as she gave him a suggestive sidelook, making sure to give him a slight, gentle bump in the side with her hips as she grinned, "John, if you cross this room and reach that bed, I promise you'll be rewarded for your motivation." She left absolutely no doubt in her words that she would._

_The next few minutes were some of the most excruciating of his life, but they were worth it. No objections, no complaints, no half-arsed attempts to get out of doing what he needed to: he just walked, with Tali standing by to provide support, straight towards the bed. There were a few times where he had almost collapsed, pushing himself beyond his limits in an attempt to get to his goal quicker so he could end his torment. His legs burned and stung. The perfect combination of spastic pain and throbbing he had ever experienced. So immense was the pain that he thought they might shatter._

_But he pushed on. He was almost there. He could practically reach out for it, his left foot skidding across the sheet tile flooring as he almost tripped up from his careless need to reach his salvation. Still, within the next minute, he had done it, hand grasping at the rear handle of his gatch stretcher. Tightening his grip, he brought his other foot closer until his other hand could grab it, allowing him to begin his slow, but faster, journey around to the edge of the bed._

_He wasted no time in reaching it, lifting himself up with his arms, lifting up the sheet and quickly lying back down, head practically slamming into the pillow with a relieved suspire. The burning in his legs persisted, but to a lesser degree now that the pressure had been taken off of them, and he could feel the encroaching darkness around his vision beginning to withdraw, allowing him some respite. His arms slumped, his entire posture relaxing as he accepted the embrace of the padded hospital bed._

_"Finally..." he croaked. With his therapy session over, he quickly sat up, and as he did so, he was quickly reminded of the festering appetency for food that his stomach was loudly proclaiming with a series of rumbles. He sniffed, the sweet of aroma of hot coffee wafting into his nostrils. Turning, a stupid grin peeled across his face, he reached over to grab his tray._

_Only to be stopped by a purple, gloved hand. Frowning, he turned to offer complaint, only to be stopped as the person responsible closed distance, and locked their lips with his. He felt himself surrendering to the sensation immediately, returning the gesture in kind and equal passion. Lips molded and sucked on each other, her smaller mouth locked between his larger one. Their eyes closed as they simply enjoyed the moment, their noses brushing against each other briefly as they adopted new angles to draw out the kiss. His hand reached up and cupped her cheek, while she reciprocated with her own gloved hand. They wanted it to last forever._

_Tali broke away first after a minute, pulling away with a satisfied smile as she locked her mask back in place, hiding her face away from the world once more, and leaving him with a pang of regret at seeing it. It always pained him to see her locked away in that suit, especially knowing what lay beneath it. One day that would change._

_Sitting back down in her seat beside him, she picked up his tray of food and quickly brought it over to him, lying it down in his lap. He nodded to her in thanks, before quickly turning his attention back to his food. He reached down and carefully plucked it from the tray and took a sip. He winced at the awful, utterly atrocious taste, but continued to sip it down anyway, his body craving energy supplement and food so badly it was willing to overlook the quality of said nourishment. Once he had finished with the coffee, he placed it the cup back down with a smack of his lips, and quickly tore off the wrapper to the dry biscuits, popping one into his mouth before chomping on it noisily. He almost choked as he coughed up the horrible, gag worthy substance, wiping his lips as he grabbed the nearby napkin and wiped his mouth. Recovering from his initial reaction, he grabbed the next biscuit, choosing to instead gnaw on it slowly rather than eat in its entirety._

_The two sat in silence as Shepard ate, Tali bringing up her omni-tool to look over the latest reports of the post-war atmosphere on Earth. After a moment, his quarian engineer spoke up again, tone enthusiastic, "Looks like Admiral Xen has figured out a way to bring the mass relay in this system back online. If she can do that, then we might be able to get the other relays activated soon."_

_He nodded, "Sounds good. No doubt the turians and your people will rejoice when they hear that. Being stuck on a levo planet must be really straining your resources."_

_"Its not too bad. The Migrant Fleet and the turian military have enough dextro rations to pass around," she explained, but finally nodded as she accepted his logic, "But we will eventually have to return to our respective worlds to resupply. Reactivating the mass relays will speed up this process."_

_Finishing on one biscuit, he moved onto the third, looking at her expectantly, "Any other news I should know about?"_

_Scrolling through her omni-tool some more, clearly sifting through and ignoring news and information he wouldn't interested in, Tali quickly came across something worthy of scrutiny, "Turns out you have a lot more admirers than we initially predicted. The crowds gathering outside have gotten so bad that Admiral Hackett has had to clear some of them out because they're blocking emergency vehicles."_

_He frowned at that, turning his attention away from the half eaten biscuit in his hand and, for the moment, his appetite, "Wait...crowds? There are crowds outside?"_

_She giggled, turning to look at him with narrowed eyes. He had no doubt what was hiding under there was a smug and mischevious grin, "It started off as a few dozen people, but as word spread that you were alive and recovering here, hundreds more, and later thousands, began turning up. There are entire encampments of people outside just waiting to see you, John. Workers, soldiers, teachers, children, resistance fighters...the list goes on. Hackett, Garrus and the others have done all they can to keep them outside for the time being. I told them I didn't want you greeting anyone until you were ready."_

_He looked at her for a brief moment, before quirking an eyebrow up, "You told them, did you? You've certainly taken charge of my care." He grinned._

_Flustered, she shrugged, rubbing the back of her hood: another human trait she had picked up on, "Well...I just want to make sure you're better. I'm not going to let any bosh'tet outside jeopardize your health just because they want to see-"_

_He held up a placatory hand, shaking his head with a chuckle, "Its okay Tali, I wasn't chastizing you. And thank you for keeping them out. I just...I can't deal with them right now." What he had said had a double meaning. While, yes, one could interpret his words as his referring to his mental and physical health at the moment, there was another, underlying reason: he hated the adoration thrown his way. The hero worship. The gratitude. All of it._

_Secretly, he hated it all. He didn't want to be extolled by the masses. He may have united the races, but they did the fighting. They won the war. All he did was give them a nudge in the right direction. He certainly didn't deserve all the praise that was being heaped on, and to have thousands of people willing to camp outside for months on end just for the chance to_ _**see** _ _him..._

_It felt like hero worship. And he didn't deserve it._

_Unfortunately, he hadn't been able to hide his tone from Tali, and the quarian immediately perked up, deactivating her omni-tool as she stood up, turning to address him, "John...are you alright?"_

_He sighed, finishing off the third biscuit. He suddenly found he wasn't very hungry anymore, so he unceremoniously slipped the tray off his lap and onto an empty space of bed next to him, wiping his mouth with the napkin before tossing it aside. He held up his left hand, waiting for hers to slip into it, and he wasn't left disappointed as she accepted his gesture, her thumb massaging the palm of his hand comfortingly. She waited quietly, knowing he would speak and reveal his thoughts when he was ready. As it had always been between them. She was patient. She could wait while he sorted out his conflicting thoughts._

_He appreciated the extra time granted to him, and after a minute, he finally felt ready to expound himself to her. He sighed with some exasperation, "I'm sick of it, Tali. All the incessant praise. The constant eulogizing. The non-stop acclaim. When people look at me, all they can see is someone they consider to be a hero. The man who won the war. But I didn't win the war: all I did was participate in it, just like everyone else. Sure, I nudged a few people, like the quarians and the geth, in the right direction, but that's all. Anybody could have done that. Hackett could have done that, when it came down to it. You could have, given time. I'm not special, yet the people out there," he motioned to the window briefly, his gaze locked with it vexingly, "...would camp outside just for a chance to see me. Like I'm somekind of...messiah. The thought of that scares me, Tali. I died once, and I almost died again. I'm already looked at as somekind of immortal man who can do the impossible. I don't need people believing I'm invincible. I don't...deserve the worship they're bestowing upon me. I don't want it."_

_After listening to his rant, Tali stood closer to his bed, looking down on him, despite the man's gaze still being tied to the window of his room, "John...that's just an inevitable result of all that you've done. I know how much you hate the praise. All it is to you is just more pressure for you to perform to some unreachably high standard. I know, because my people thought the same of me when I came back from my pilgrimage, and again when I became an admiral. But you know what? That's the result of our work. People reward our sacrifice by immortalizing us. Its been the case throughout history."_

_He laughed bitterly, shaking his head as he turned back to her, "But I don't deserve it! There are plenty of unsung heros who have died throughout this war. What about Mordin? He's the one who truly cured the genophage! Thane? He saved the salarian councilor. Legion? He sacrificed himself to give the geth new life. And those are just our friends! What of Primarch Victus' son, who died to stop a bomb on Tuchanka from going off, all to save the lives of a people who his own command believed were violent barbarians? And...Anderson," he choked up for a second, trying to bite back the dark, hazy memory of his adoptive father's death on the Citadel, "who led a resistance on Earth, survived hellish conditions, fought his way across the entire world to reach London, his birth place, all to hold out against an overwhelming force, which he then led personally, despite his exhaustion, and then followed me into the Beam against all odds...only to die an undignified death at the hands of that cigar-smoking fuckface who was delusional enough to think he could play God. Anderson's the real hero. Without him...everything I did might have fallen apart. Where were the hordes of people at his funeral? Where's the statue being built in his honor?"_

_Tali remained quiet, knowing that Anderson's death had greatly pained Shepard. The man had been like a father to him, and she could imagine the man's pride in seeing what Shepard had become. But Shepard didn't see that: all he saw was the death of a man he considered family, who had sacrificed everything only to be repaid via death on a space station to an enemy he couldn't even fight back against. Shepard had survived, but Anderson hadn't. In some way, deep down, Shepard ostensibly blamed himself for that. Hated that he got to live, but Anderson didn't._

_Shepard continued, voice hoarse and cracking, "Heroes litter the streets of London to this day, Tali. Heroes whose bodies are still being recovered. Heroes whose families still mourn their passing. They are the ones who won this war. The ones who fought the hard yards. Who gave their lives for all of existence. Who laid down their prejudices, set aside old skepticism, to work towards a common goal. Batarians and humans, geth and quarians, krogan and salarians, turians and humans...all of them came together to fight the one enemy that mattered. They deserve to have encampments waiting for their triumphant return. They deserve to have big, grand epitaphs built in their name and the quarians writing poems of them, and their names etched into the krogan language for all time. Instead, they'll lie in unmarked cenotaphs, their names clumped amongst each other, forgotten, while the man whose only achievement was to lead them gets to live on, name praised exhaustively. That's not fair, Tali. That's not justice."_

_She shook her head, glaring down at him. After noting her silence, he looked up at her with disconsolance, about to open his mouth to speak again when Tali got in first, cutting him off, "You can't see it, can you? What you mean to these people. You're not just a hero, John, you're the man who lead us to victory. The man who saw the threat, tried to warn our leaders, but whose cautions fell on deaf ears: and despite all that, you fought on, seemingly alone, regardless. You fought when noone else did. And when the threat finally came, and the armies of the galaxy finally got off their butts to do something about it, you willingly tossed outside all rancour with them and lead them. Yes, you only nudged them in the right direction, and yes, many of those unsung heroes will never get the recognition they deserve, but you're forgetting that those same unsung heroes gave their life for a cause you spearheaded. They believed in you, chose to follow you into the ground zero of a nightmare with the promise you would triumph over the Reapers. Those people are thankful of the symbol, not you Shepard. Its the same reason Cerberus brought you back in the first place."_

_He looked at her regretfully, before nodding as he lowered his head, one of his fingers idly picking at his bed sheet, "I'll probably never see it the way they do, Tali. I simply don't want any of it. I've done my duty, everything that was expected of me, but all they want to do is constantly remind me of everything I did. I want to leave that in the past. But they want to glorify it. Turn me into their poster child. I won't have it. I won't ever accept it."_

_She simply nodded to everything he said, reaching down to stroke his cheek in the process, "Perhaps you won't have to. But let the people have their beliefs, John: after all, what harm would it bring to have something to believe in? Surely we cannot deny them that."_

_He exhaled deeply, scratching his head as he reached over and grabbed the hand on his cheek, squeezing it reassuringly as he smiled back up at her, "Maybe we can't, but that doesn't mean I have to indulge it. It might sound selfish Tali, but my only priority now is you. Once I'm out of here, we're going to Rannoch, and I'm going to build you that house."_

_Her eyes widened to saucers at that revelation, the quarian frowning at him in surprise, "You'd...just leave Earth? Just like that? Don't you have anything you'd like to do here? And what about the military, your Spectre status...?"_

_He waved a dismissive hand, leaning down to inhale the leathery smell of her suit before he gave her palm a quick peck with his lips, the aching of his legs beginning to seep away, "None of that matters anymore. I wasn't born on Earth: I don't have the same attachment to it that some people do. I already told you I'm retiring from the military, and if I'm not eligible for military service, then I'm certainly not going back to the Spectres. I'll see what I can arrange with them. But from this point forward, its you and me Tali. Our new life. We fought hard for this. It is our right."_

_She gradually knelt down onto her knees beside the bed, bringing her eye level with him, the quarian reaching over with her other hand to caress his other cheek while she leaned forward over towards him, her mask tapping against his scalp and holding there, her voice coming out in a bare whisper, "I couldn't agree more, John. You just...surprised me. I'm...looking forward to it, actually. Although, I have to admit, it terrifies me a bit."_

_He chuckled, nodding his head as best he could with Tali holding onto him, "Yeah...I'm scared too. No more gunfights, no more wars, no more intangible and intragalactic belligerents hanging over us with the constant threat of death at any moment. Just us and whatever lies ahead. Its going to be different. But I can't imagine doing it with anyone else. I'm scared, Tali, but even more so, I'm excited. I can't wait."_

_The sound of the door sliding open grabbed their attention, and Tali pulled away so the two of them could look to see who had visited them. It was Doctor Stoneman, the bald man immediately taking note of Shepard's state on the bed, "Ah, commander. Looks like you've completed your therapy," he turned towards Tali, eyebrows raised in curiosity, "Miss Zorah, if you could update me on his progress, that'd be most helpful."_

_She nodded and quickly pulled away from him to speak with Doctor Stoneman, while Shepard watched them with a lopsided smile. Their words became distant noise, quickly muting into background sound as their animated gestures continued on in silence. He had only eyes for her, and her only._

_He meant what he promised. A future. A home for both of them._

_And damn the galaxy if they tried to take that from him._

* * *

_Rannoch - December 15, 2187 - Present Day_.

" _ **John!**_ "he heard as his vision began to distort and tighten, the darkness in his eyes reaching their twilight as the parted their grip on his eyesight, " _John, are you alright!?_ "

Coming back to his senses, Shepard parted his eyes fully to find the world tilted at an odd angle. He quickly realized that he was lying down on the floor, his head pressed firmly against the cold wood floor boards. He felt a dull ache on the side of his head, and as he pushed himself up, he felt his feet propped up on something, and quickly turned to see what it was. There, he found his feet lying down on the third bottom rung of the stairs. He frowned, puzzled by his predicament. Here he was, lying down on the floor, right next to the stairs, with no recollection of how he got there.

He looked up, watching as padded, three toed feet practically glided down the steps, the frantic pedalling of a quarian concerned for his well being.

He grunted as he pushed himself up and into a sitting position, hand automatically cradling the side of his head, where he felt the dull ache eminating from. There, he felt a bruise: it was small, but noticeable, if the sudden deformation on the side of his head was any indication. He wracked his mind for answers, making his way to his feet as he did so, doing so just as Tali arrived at his side, kneeling down out of worry, studying his face for an answer to her distraught question.

As he made to stand up though, the last remnant of a painful spasm in his leg reared its ugly head, making him instinctively wince in pain before he could restrain it. And as the brief pain lanced up his body, he suddenly remembered just how he had ended up at the bottom of the stairs with a lump on his head.

_We had just moved our new bed into the bedroom. I was going downstairs to get a glass of water when my hip suddenly spasmed and seized up. I fell down the stairs, and landed on the bottom floor, wacking my head on the way down, hence the lump. Tali must have heard me cry out, or she heard the thump I made when I fell._

Knowing Tali would only press on and ask her question again, he quickly made sure to answer, all the while trying to stand down, biting his way through the pain. He knew exactly why she was worried, and he wanted to shut those thoughts down before they got rampant. He knew exactly what Tali was like when she got overly concerned, "I'm alright, Tali. I just...I tripped, okay." The answer was lame, even to his ears, but he was so focused on standing up that giving Tali a believable answer seemed a forethought.

"You  _tripped_?" she exclaimed, completely dumbstruck his answer that she had to stand up, towering over him as he now reached over to the wall, grabbing a hold of the corner firmly as he began to leverage his way to his feet, "John, I heard you cry out in  _pain_  before you even fell. Don't lie to me!"

Gritting his teeth and trying not to bite his tongue in the process, he gradually began to pull himself up, his other hand joining the man one on the wall as he slowly began to rise. One of his feet threatened to slip out from under him and twist at an awkward angle, but he managed to adjust his position accordingly in time. His legs quivered, knees bucklingly under the intense pressure, but he perservered, stubbornly abnegating his current state. As a result, Tali received no answer, all his energy siphoned into the effort.

Tali saw this and sighed, reaching over to sling one of his arms over her shoulders, motioning to help him up, satisfied she'd get a proper response once he was standing.

To her shock, he shrugged her off, stubbornly refusing her help. His knuckles now blisteringly white, hands veiny to the point where it looked like a blood vessel might pop, Shepard finally brought himself up to his feet, holding onto the corner for a few seconds more as he gave his body time to adjust to standing upright again. He exhaled softly, futilely trying to hide the sheer struggle he had been facing just trying to get up. He could not show weakness. Not infront of her.

After a few seconds, he gently pushed himself away from the wall, and satisfied he could now walk properly again, made his way towards the kitchen, taking it one step at a time. Tali shadowed him closely, and wasted no time in pressing him for answers again, "John, please talk to me. I know you don't like talking about it, but if your leg is acting up again, then you know it could be a prelude to-"

"I'm  _ **fine**_ ," he hissed, a brief moment of anger overcoming him before he composed himself again and continued his trek to the kitchen. He hadn't meant to snap at her like that for the measly crime of worrying about him, but the combination of his frustration at his physical condition and her prodding had just begun to remind him just how fragile he really was. A porcelain doll that only needed a few more dents before it would crack. He hobbled into the main kitchen area, finding that a lot of the pain had begun to subside, submitting to him a modicum of his usual motor control. He used the remainder of it to grab one of the nearby stools, pull it out and sit down on it, a long exhale of breath signalling his satisfaction at the relief placed on his legs.

Reaching over, he grabbed a nearby glass and quickly filled it with water, licking his lips after taking one large gulp, emptying half the glass in an instant before letting it rest down on the counter with a tap. After a moment, he turned to his left, meeting Tali's unwithering, angry glare.

"You stubborn, prideful, unrelenting, utterly stupid, unbelievable  _bosh'tet_ ," she snapped, walking over to him and practically waving her finger in his face as she began to rant, "This is the second time this week you've tried to wave me off when this has happened. Why can't you simply accept there's no shame in asking for help? Instead, you shrug me off and decide to limp to the kitchen by yourself like the galaxy's existence depends upon it."

"Give me a break, Tali," he deflected, rubbing the bruise on his head, the dull ache like an intense heartbeat, constantly pounding his skull. He would need to apply some medi-gel to it soon, to dull the pain, "So I fell down some stairs. I've suffered a lot worse, and they've failed to kill me. I think I can survive some stairs," he drawled sarcastically.

"The stairs aren't the source of the problem, and you know it," she scornfully persisted, walking over and placing herself in full view of him as he tipped his head back and swallowed the rest of his water, the quarian crossing her arms, "You can't keep doing this. If you have a recurrence, what then? John, the point wasn't that you fell down the stairs. The point is...if you had..."

He knew exactly what she meant, and hearing the anger seep away in her tone to be replaced with crippling worry made him internally curse his own stupidity.  _God fucking damn it. She's just worried. If I were in her position, I'd be doing the same thing. And she's right...if I had an episode while going down those stairs...anything could have happened. I could have snapped my neck. I could have...seriously injured myself, or even died. I've got to be more bloody careful._

In the brief moment that he had felt his hip seize up at the top of those stairs, he had really feared he was going to have an episode. He had feared the moment where his legs would begin to burn, searing heat travelling up his spine and filling him with a mixture of cold and red hot dread as his body began to succumb to-

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. Turning to Tali, he reached out to her, desperately wanting to reconcile with her. To his luck, she felt the same and eagerly accepted the gesture, using his outstretched arm to pull him into a hug, "Damn it, John...damn it...you were close. So close. Please don't do that to me. Not ever again."

_I scared her. Damn fool._

He nodded, his head tucked under her own, while he pulled away from her embrace, looking up into her eyes, "I'm sorry. Really. I didn't mean to scare you. But I don't like being treated as if I'm fragile, either."

She sighed, rubbing her visor in a gesture reminscent to that of a human facepalm, "I know you're not. All I wanted to do was help you."

He licked his lips, before rubbing the small of her back reassuringly, "I know, and thank you. I didn't mean to snap at you. I just feel so bloody hopeless whenever my legs do that. All I can do is just sit there and take it. Can't even control my own body."

Nodding, she quickly made her way to sit on a stool right next to him, a hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck while she tapped her faceplate against his forehead, pulling away after holding the gesture for a few seconds, "Just promise me, from now on, you won't do anything stupid like that again. You really scared me."

He gave her a simple smile in return, nodding, "I promise."

A minute passed quietly, Shepard reaching to get another glass of water while Tali sifted through her omni-tool to look at her news feed, their previous situation apparently forgotten. They had both accepted the recurrences and his temporary fragility as being part of their lives for the forseeable future, and saw no reason to linger on such issues when they popped up. They didn't want that kind of negativity in their lives, and Shepard especially didn't want his life dictated by his body's stubborn refusal to heal properly.

The process of moving into their house was going well. With Urz outside exploring his new Rannochian playground, Shepard and Tali were left to their own devices. The bedroom had of course been a priority, with their new bed installed in place of the sleeping mat they had been using. They had made sure to order the majority of their new furniture as soon as possible, simply waiting for delivery before moving it inside. The process of decorating their new home was a prospect Shepard found exciting, and one that allowed him to focus on things other than his fragmentary status. And Tali, of course, had gone to town analyzing the integrity and reliability of the house's decontamination system, which of course would, if it worked to specifications, turn the house into a sterile environment where she could potentially walk around without her suit. Shepard had been paranoid of the system's safety though, constantly terrified that a single stray of bacteria could get through and prove fatal to Tali. He wasn't willing to take the risk, to the point where he felt he was close to convincing Tali to dismantle the main decon door and to combine her efforts with some geth to give a thorough inspection to it. Tali, just to placate him, would likely agree in the end, if only to alleviate his concerns.

His thoughts were broken by the sound of soft laughter. Turning to his girlfriend, he saw her finger poised over her omni-tool's holographic display, frozen mid sweep as she apparently found a news article that amused her. He couldn't help but grin in response, curious to know what had made her laugh, "Don't tell me: ANN's still trying to push that Liara love story agenda. I don't think I'll ever understand their infatuation with my private life. I'm sure Khalisah is having plenty of fun dissecting it all."

"Oh no..." she giggled, shaking her head as she tilted her omni-tool in his direction, giving him a better angle to look at it from, "Have a read."

Getting into a better position to read, he looked down at the omni-display, his vision clearing up, as did the words from an ANN article before him, " _'_ _ **Melbournians redefine what it is to be a Shepard fan,'**_ _an editorial piece by Katharina Ericsson. Editor's note: Katharina Ericsson is a writer and political commentator based in Melbourne. For more_...blah, blah, blah...' _Even in isolation, Commander Shepard continues to win the hearts and minds of those he's affected, and that's represented nowhere better than in the streets of the Melbourne CBD. This morning, Shepard fans took the streets in droves, thousands of people of ranging global ethnicities, nationalities and species proudly proclaiming their love for the galactic war hero. Beginning on LaTrobe street outside Flagstaff station, their demonstrations took them from the very heart of Melbourne to the outer suburbs of Camberwell and Canterbury..._ uh-huh... _so far, Victorian Police have not had to intervene, and the demonstrations have not escalated into violence. Some would wonder exactly...what are these demonstrations for? Well, it appears Melbournians have redefined what it is to be a Shepard fan. A group calling themselves the 'Shepardists' have spearheaded the demonstrations, calling for Earth Victory Day, the date as you all know that marked the end of the greatest conflict in galactic history, to be renamed John Shepard Day, in commeroration of the man who made it all possible. The group has-"_

He snorted, turning away suddenly as he shook his head in disgust, "Unbelievable. These people don't give up." He took another sip of his glass.

Tali just shrugged, shoulders still shaking slightly with terribly contained mirth, "I don't know, I kind've find it amazing what lengths people will go to show their appreciation for someone who saved their lives."

He grunted, offering no comment on that. Tali already knew his thoughts on that topic, "But renaming it after  _me_? All that does is make the day about me, not the people who fought and died to defeat the Reapers. What about them? These people make a mockery out of what Earth Victory Day is all about. Its not about a single man, woman or child...its about an entire galaxy, united together, defeating the deadliest and most powerful enemy in all our known history...and they can't see that. They'd rather take a day of mourning and celebration and twist it into a conduit for their insipid adoration for some person they've never met."

Tali just deactivated her omni-tool, nudging him with her shoulder as she reached over to fetch herself a glass of water, feeling a tad thirsty herself apparently, "I've never heard anyone complain so much about having a day named after them. Did you know the Eden Prime colonists are petitioning to have a statue built in your honor at Colony Euphoria? Apparently its the same colony the geth attacked four years ago. Where this all started." Her tone was playful, and he quickly caught on, unable to keep himself from smiling along with her.

He groaned however, rubbing his eyes at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, "God, next they'll take Pressly's suggestion and literally melt down all my medals and turn them into a life-sized statue of me and plant it in the Normandy's CIC. If I was a vain piece of garbage, I'd probably hang a portrait of myself in our room to remind myself just what a magnificient person I am. Can these people not see what they're doing? Do they not look in a mirror and think 'okay, this is getting a tad ridiculous'? I swear, if they somehow find our house..."

Standing from her stool, his quarian girlfriend quickly wrapped her arms around him from behind, hands joining around his stomach as she pressed herself against his back, head resting on his shoulder. The grin in her voice was so obvious he could almost see it, "Don't worry Shepard, I'll protect you from all your crazy fans. I've got a shotgun."

He laughed a bit in response, utterly in awe of her ability to make him find humor in everything she talked about, regardless of the context. He played with the fingers wrapped around his chest, letting loose an inaudible sigh, "Thanks Tali, but...I'll be fine. I just wish these people would let sleeping dogs lie. I don't want all this attention. I'd prefer people forget I exist...but since that's never going to happen, I'll suffice with them simply getting over me."

"Keelah, I can just imagine all your female fans."

"Don't remind me."

"You're complaining? Most men could only dream of  _that_ much attention."

"Most men don't have you."

"That was corny, even for you."

"But I know you loved it."

"Maybe."

After a brief period passed, the two of them locked together in a warm embrace, Shepard's fingers fiddling with hers while she rubbed his stomach, the quarian finally filled the void in their conversation with her voice, "Just give it time, John. People will move on eventually, as they always do. Either way, they won't be bothering us. And as much as I was mostly joking about keeping rabid fans off of you, I really wouldn't mind-"

He tilted his head to an angle that allowed him to kiss the bottom of her helmet, smiling lightly as he stroked the underside of her jaw underneath the protective material, "I know. And thanks."

Before Tali could form a response, her omni-tool beeped loudly, and she quickly pulled away from him to check it. The orange light flickering in and out of existence on her wrist quickly expanded into a full display around her entire arm, the quarian deftly working her way through the device with the touch only an engineer could demonstrate. Within moments, the quarian was reading over the contents of the message she had received...

...and laughed giddily, bouncing on her toes, "Keelah, John! Its Garrus and Kasumi! They said they're coming to visit us! Here, on Rannoch!"

Shepard initially didn't know what to say. He hadn't seen his turian brother-in-arms in over seven months: not since he had retired from the Spectres, recommended Garrus for the position and then promptly shot off to Rannoch with Tali. Ever since then, the two had barely kept in contact, the two simply too busy to really communicate with each other all that often. And Tali, despite hiding it well, had sorely missed her hooded friend, Kasumi considered the closest thing Tali had to a big sister outside of Ashley. It had been Kasumi, after all, who had convinced Tali to have the courage to finally admit her feelings to Shepard on the Normandy only two years ago. Suffice to say, Shepard and Tali missed their respective best friends dearly, and regretted not staying in contact as much as they should have.

Shepard just grinned, practically leaping off of his stool. To his immense relief, he did not sway or lose balance, and the pain in his leg was completely gone, almost like it had never been there, "Tali...that's great! Its been so long since we've seen them, it'll be great to catch up."

His excitement only fueled her own, the quarian's frenetic bouncing so enthusiastic he was beginning to worry she might rocket through the roof. She grabbed his shoulders with her hands, babbling away, "Kasumi and I haven't spoken in months! This will be a great time to catch up! Not to mention Garrus...keelah, I feel horrible."

He patted her hands, squeezing them gently as he tried to alleviate her guilt, "Its okay, Tali, the aftermath of the war has kept us all busy for different reasons. Let's just be glad we can finally meet up like this. When are they expected to arrive?"

"Oh, good question," she riposted, pulling back from him and quickly double checking her omni-tool. After a moment of hesitation, she looked up at him, eyes wide as saucers.

"...tomorrow."

A few moments passed, and then Shepard cleared his throat, "Right. So...we better get this place cleaned up."

"Yeah!"

And just like that, like a pair of rabbits, the two of them leapt in opposite directions to each other, belting across the house as they frantically got to work getting their home presentable and all the relevant furniture inside.

Their home was about to have its first guests.

* * *

 _Rannoch - December 15, 2187_.

The rich, hot soil of Rannoch crunched and yielded to the insouciant step of an alien's foot, parting enough to leave an imprint upon the dirt riddled ground. Blades of sharp looking grass parted to permit his passage through the long field, his steps steady and precise. Any person who could see the man would see one who was not in a hurry, but was taking his time to reach his destination, relishing the journey as much as the objective waiting for them as well.

Parked 400 meters behind him was a skycar: a cheap, 500 credit 2148 Jetstar Mark IX with a stand out white paintjob and a two-seater configuration, with a relatively low-horsepower engine capable of speeds of 90 kilometers per hour on average. An unremarkable vehicle, but suitable for his needs. He was no vehicular maven: all he needed was quick transportation, nothing more. And considering he hadn't exactly come into big money, he had to take what he could get.

The path he was taking was straightforward and uncomplicated, taking him down through a large valley with grassy savannahs stretching well into the distance in almost all directions. His path took him in the direction of the ocean, and he could already hear the distant thunder of its waves crashing upon open land, where the mainland met the abyssal depths of its brobdingnagian counterpart. A soft breeze wafted its way through the grass stalks, causing them to whip back and forth, whilst eliciting a cool, pleasant sensation on his exposed skin, taming the intense depth bathed down on him by Rannoch's sun, whose intensity was such that he could feel the fabric of his shirt pinning itself to his body, coated in thick, drenching sweat.

He wiped his brow, but pressed on. He wore a simple black cap with no distinguishing marks or brand, but had left his rain jacket in the skycar, for he had no need of it, sporting a loose singlet underneath a white shirt sporting the logo of a brandname he cared little for. He wore loose fitting, knee length cargo shorts, while his feet were encased in steel capped, grey-coloured, all-terrain boots with six laces, all tightly fastened. His blackish hair was kept tightly concealed under his cap, denying the Rannochian wind of its chance to bring chaos to it. He scratched the light stubble forming on his chin, facial hair he had failed to mitigate ever since he was freed from his prison of a month and a half.

_Oh, sorry. My 'rehabilitation facility'. What were they rehabilitating again?_

With a backpack slung over one shoulder, the other strap hanging loosely to his side, he remembered his personal mission. Ever since leaving that facility on Earth, only one objective had mattered in his mind. Now that he was free to roam the galaxy again, there was only person he wished to see, one person he needed to encounter. He wasn't sure what he would do yet, or even what he was supposed to do, he just knew he had to see him.

_Why? What is my business with this man? What duty has compelled me to come here?_

The moment he had left the facility, he had searched up Commander Shepard on the extranet. It hadn't taken him long to sift through the thousands upon thousands of articles detailing the man's recent achievements and isolationism when he narrowed down the search, including 'current location'. As the media had been unable to determine said location, he had been forced to do some of his own deduction, and before he knew it, he was looking at leaked extranet images about Shepard's alleged 'presence' on Rannoch. A presence that had been subsequently denied and mocked by the media as being 'intrinsically unlikely.'

Unlike them however, he was not so skeptical. Without even giving his current state much thought, or placing any further scrutiny on his self-appointed task, he quickly got in contact with the financial institution in charge of his accounts, and before he knew it, he had booked passage to Rannoch, taking a 500 credit skycar he had bought (the cheapest he could find) with him for transportation. All based on a whim.

He had no clue why he felt drawn here. Why Shepard's name triggered such a magnetic influence in him. All he did know was that he needed to satisfy it. That, somehow, the answers lay with finding the man.

Asking the locals as to Shepard's location yielded enough information for him to make his own analysis. So now here he was, treking Rannoch's wilderness, twenty kilometers south of the planet's capital. And he was close.

After a few more minutes of travelling, the silhouette of a house came into view as he crested a hill. The telltale design of a composite lightweight tiled roof was immediately identifiable, giving way to the frame of a two-storied house that was almost mansion-sized in diameter. It was quite an impressive size, especially in comparison to the other homes being built across the planet. Any quarian would have been flabbergasted by the sheer exorbitancy of the structure.

He came to a stop, eyes quickly scanning the area for a good spot to set down. He had no intention thus far of engaging Shepard directly, as he needed to know what the man was like first before he risked direct social interaction. Despite having fought strenuously during the Reaper War, he seemed to possess very little knowledge of this man, even though he had been the unofficial figurehead of the entire war effort. Everybody knew who Shepard was, yet here he was, unable to remember any details about him except his face.

On his way to Rannoch, he had done what research he could. The man's service record was surprisingly well classified, and thus very little of it was released onto the extranet, viewable via his profile on the Alliance Navy website. Several commendations, his famous last stand on Elysium during the Blitz, his actions on the Citadel against rogue spectre Saren Arterius and the geth heretic splinter faction, the two year gap between his 'KIA' status a month later and two years after in 2185, and his various actions during the war. He could immediately see that many unexplained gaps existed in his profile, but without further information, he couldn't speculate as to why. All he knew was that this man was considered the Alliance's golden child, their perfect image of what every Alliance soldier should be perceived as or aspire to be.

But few men could ever be as prestigious as the Commander himself. That was why he was here to judge that for himself.

He quickly found the perfect spot within seconds of searching: a small incline that overlooked a small, five foot drop into the savannah below, which acted as a  _de facto_ border marker for where the property of Shepard began and ended. The incline lay just outside the actual perimeter. A few shrubberies shrouded the small bump in the land and acted as natural camouflage for anyone who wished to use it to hide. Just like him.

As he approached it, his boots crunching loudly against the compact dirt, he noticed a small, four-legged rat-looking animal emerge from the brush, its short black hair and gnarled teeth giving the creature a filthy appearance. It had two red eyes that looked intensely bloodshot, and its long, snake-like tail was devoid of all hair, showing its purple skin underneath. Four-toed feet, each toe ending in razor sharp talons, scraped across the ground as it darted out, retarding its forward movement once it noticed the human male standing over it, casting his giant shadow over the smaller creature. It started hissing at him, baring its ugly green teeth at him in a display that would have been frightening or intimidating to any other creature it was supposed to be a predator to. To him, he found himself gritting his teeth in annoyance.

He didn't even need to think about it. His hand immediately snapped to the sheath at his hip and retracted the small Gerber Mark V combat fixed blade, the onyx knife being of a unique design that incorporated elements of a serrated knife and a straight edge: serrated towards the handle, straight edge at the tip. He quickly flipped the blade from its upside down position into a upward facing one with the precision of a professional, sunlight absorbed by the blade due to its black color.

The repulsive creature barely had time to react. Within moments, he descended upon it, knife descending through the air as he ignored the animal's warnings and slammed it into the top of the critter's back. The rat screamed as the blade effortlessly penetrated through skin, impaling it into the ground and pinning it in place. It spat and thrashed around, toes scrapping along in the dirt desperately to find purchase, but failing. A few seconds later, and the rat ceased movement as he twisted the knife in place, tearing and slicing its organs. Once he was sure it was dead, he placed his boot on its face and yanked, ignoring the spurt of red blood that briefly shot out before wiping the excess blood and gore off on its tiny body, sheathing it. He then proceeded to abhorrently kick its cadaver away, watching it fly through the air before landing in the grass a few meters away, the hole in its back spilling its intestines, torn organs and blood across the trail it left in its wake. Wincing his nostrils in disgust at the pungent smell, he turned away and quickly kneeled down behind the shrubbery, before splaying himself forward into a prone orientation, using his arms to drag himself across the dirt until he was right at the hill's edge, overlooking the property.

From his perch, he had a full view of the front of Shepard's house: and to his infinite fortune, all the windows were wide open, no curtains obscuring his view straight into the home's interior. With a grunt, he reached around and pulled off his backpack, laying it down next to him before prying open the zipper. He reached inside, hand fumbling around for his water bottle and his dihydroergotamine tablets. He was scheduled to take them at least once a day (every 26.7 hours to be exact), and it was time for his next tablet. Not taking them would result in an...unpleasant experience, one he'd love to avoid.

Unscrewing the cap on his steel water canteen, he quickly popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed it down with some water. Satisfied his condition had been abated, he placed the items back into the bag and, this time, pulled out a pair of binoculars, placing the strap for them over and around his neck, before turning back to face the house, his binoculars poised infront of him. He noted just how glad he was this planet had no insect life: if this had been Earth, he might have had ants crawling all over him by now.

Licking his lips, he raised the binoculars to his eyes, enhancing the zoom function by 12x to give him a reasonable window into the events going on several hundred meters away from him. He spat off the side of the pit, clearing his mouth of excess saliva before he returned to his work.

_Time to see exactly who you are, Commander Shepard. And why I'm drawn to you._

It didn't take him long to find the man in question. Peeking through the window pane to the right of the main doorway, the outlines of two people could be seen in the dimly lit kitchen. He immediately recognized the form of Shepard: the lightly bearded man with brown hair and muscular appearance immediately standing out when compared to the lithe, curvy form of the quarian woman standing beside him, frame draped in purple. He zoomed in with his binoculars a bit more, eventually getting a few so close that he could make out the color of Shepard's eyes. The man looked troubled, but by what, he couldn't tell. The woman looked to be comforting him.

_Troubled? What could he possibly be troubled by? He's Commander Shepard. Nothing troubles this man._

He continued to watch from his perch, his gaze upon the two completely unmoving. He was internally trying to figure out who this quarian female was that was speaking to Shepard, but he found it difficult to determine. Her appearance had effectively thrown another wrench into the quagmire that was his dilemma. Everything he thought he knew about the man was constantly being put into question, and it was beginning to dawn on him that he probably didn't know that much about him at all.

_Perhaps it is I who is at fault. I must do more research. It is a good thing I chose not to approach him. Imagine the damage that might have been done?_

A minute or so later, and the quarian seemed to straighten up suddenly, catching Shepard offguard...at least initially. She then held onto him and began to bounce excitedly, which seemed to put a smile on Shepard's face, causing the man observing them to frown.

_This quarian amuses Shepard...or comforts him? Who is she to him?_

The quarian's bouncing ceased after glancing at her omni-tool, and then suddenly Shepard's grin disappeared after she looked back up at him. Whatever had caused their sudden deterioration in mood, it spurred them into action, and before he could so much as blink, the two had shot off in seperate directions across the house. He quickly tracked Shepard as he opened the front door, moving outside to grab a chair that was sitting on the veranda, facing the wall. He then quickly picked the chair up, using a gargantuan strength that defied belief, and disappeared back inside the house, door closing behind him. He tried to track him through the windows again, but he must have disappeared further inside the house, because he could find no further trace of him.

Sighing, he pulled his binoculars away from his face, and placed them down on the ground, still holding them in his hands as he thought about what he had seen.  _That quarian clearly holds some importance to him. The way they interacted, how she made him smile, and how his mood seemed to be dependent on hers being reciprocal...no, this woman is definitely of paramount importance to him. Why else would he hide on Rannoch, escaping the clutches of the galactic media at large? Why else would he isolate himself?_

Pulling away so he could be completely out of sight, he turned around until he was on his back, binoculars lying on his stomach while he looked up at the sky. He found solace in just observing the disparity between Rannoch's orange sky and Earth's calming blue. He found himself clucking his tongue as he pondered what he had seen, what he currently knew, and how he was desperately trying to make sense of it all.

Nothing made sense in his addled mind.

_Just why am I here? Why did I feel compelled to spend most of my money on a ticket to this out-of-the-way recently reclaimed world just to find one man? What was my plan? To briefly spy on him? And what has that accomplished? All I did was end up with more questions than answers. I need a way to sort this out...to find meaning._

He thought coming here would provide clarity for his abrupt, unforeseen and unexplained new objective that he himself couldn't even cohere. Instead, he was left puzzled by the new information presented to him, and no closer to understanding his own personal quest.

And then, suddenly, a word popped into his head, ostensibly drawn forth by his own self-interrogation.

_Progress._

He frowned at that, confused as to where the word came from, how he thought of it and what it meant.  _Progress...of what? Shepard? Me? Perhaps Shepard's progress has been stunted by something...but progress on what? Or what if it means my progress in ascertaining Shepard's importance to my psyche? Or my progress in making contact with him?_

In the end, he exhaled deeply, finding himself no closer to a solution, and hauled himself off the ground, unwrapping the binoculars from his neck and placing them back in his bag, zipping it up and slinging it over his back again before quietly and stealthily prying himself away, moving back in the direction of his skycar. Had this detour really been a total waste of time and money, or had there been something he had gleaned from this?

Whatever the case, he made sure to mentally jot down the location of Shepard's house for future reference. Whatever this quest of his was, whenever it became clearer and his purpose determined, he would return and complete his task. At this point, he was a fool fumbling around in the dark without a flashlight, with no clue of what to do next or how to go about it. However he knew, he just knew, that if he applied himself hard enough, and just had some patience, he'd find out what he needed to do. And when that happened, he would do anything he could to latch onto that purpose and hold on tight.

Because whatever the task was...he had a subconscious feeling it was of cardinal importance he complete it. It was imperative he find out what it was, and soon.

As he walked down the path, returning to his skycar, he nodded silenty to himself.  _I must be patient. The truth will unveil itself, and when it does, I will be there to seize upon the opportunity. I cannot fail._

That much he  _did_  know.

* * *

_Royal London Hospital, England, Earth - January 21, 2187 - Three and a half months since Shepard's retrieval._

_And now his mouth was on fire._

_Hands scraping the toilet bowl for purchase, he felt rivulets of sweat dripping down his face as he leaned over the cusp of the toilet itself. He groaned piteously, saliva build up in his mouth switched to full bore as he drooled heavily. The smell of his bile rose up and slammed into his senses, Shepard practically able to_ _**taste** _ _, as well as smell, the chunder that had so violently exited his stomach, burning a path through his throat before erupting from his mouth. The stench was enough to make him want to puke again, and he would soon get his wish._

_He retched heavily as a fresh cascade of infected material was discharged from his body. This wasn't like normal bile though: this felt red hot, like his stomach was sending boiling embers up through his oesophagus. It was pain on a scale he had never experienced for, and he had almost passed out from it several times. This was not normal vomit: this was the usual vomit, times hundred._

_A gloved, three-fingered hand gently and lovingly worked its way through his hair, caressing his scalp reassuringly. After what had to be his fourth salvo, she leaned down next to him, squeezing his shoulders, "Let it all out, John."_

_"Almost...done..." he gagged, and without hesitation, turned back to the bowl just as more bile erupted from his mouth. He had been too slow on the uptake though, and a few specks of vomit spat from his nose, burning his nostrils. He felt utterly dreadful: vomitting, even after all his years in the service, had to be the first fucking thing he would ever have to deal with. The smell, the feeling of it, and the aftermath...unpleasant didn't describe it adequately enough._

_His body must have been finished though, because he felt the saliva intake within his mouth begin to subside, and he no longer felt the urge to puke anymore, which was a good sign. Raising a shaking hand to wipe the sweat from his head, face flushed lobster red, he took a few deep breaths, resting for a moment. Tali, seeing that he was finished, finally helped him up and steadily removed him from the lavatory, taking him over to the hospital bed, where she laid him back down, quickly covering him with the sheet._

_His head hit the pillow first, and he couldn't help but sigh in self-irritation as he saw Tali's purple veil missing from her body, now tossed haphazardly in the lavatory's wash basin. His first vomit attack had come without warning: after yet another successful session of physical therapy (where he walked up and down the corridor with minimal discomfort), he had sat down to eat. Before he knew what was happening, he projectile vomitted._

_Straight into Tali's lap._

_To her credit, she hadn't complained. She had proceeded to help him into the lavatory with no care towards herself, lower body drenched as it was, and settled him next to the toilet, where he had been emptying the contents of stomach for the past fifteen minutes. While he had done this, Tali had carefully detached her veil from her suit and tossed it into the sink, using the tap to wash it and leave it to soak. Now she sat next to him, suit devoid of a hood (and thus showing all the numerous mechanical and life support systems usually hidden behind it) and lower 'skirt'._

_"I'm sorry, Tali," he apologized, internally chastizing myself, "Your veil..."_

_She reached up a hand to silence him, waving his concerns away, "John, please, its fine. Really, its no problem. I can wash it out. The stink will take a while to get rid of...but I'll live. You can't blame yourself for that," she sighed, reaching over to grasp his hand tightly, "Keelah, your condition must be worse than they thought. I'll get Doctor Stoneman. Don't do anything."_

_Even if he wanted to offer an objection, he couldn't: not only did his throat sting like hell, making talking very difficult, but Tali had already shot up and left the room. All he could do was lay there...and wait._

_His vomitting was but one of a series of odd, extremely agonizing symptoms that had been cropping up over the past three months. Doctor Stoneman and his medical team had reassured him he would be alright with the passage of time, and that he would regain most of his motor functions given time and patience. And while he had been right to that degree, with the pain in Shepard's legs ebbing way with every progressing therapy session, what Stoneman and his doctors had failed to pick up was now rearing its ugly head to haunt Shepard, torturing him with random bouts of bodily atrophy._

_It had started with debilitating muscle spasms, then blackouts. Just last month, he had started having unexplained diarrhoea, his one of his arms would ocassionally stop working for brief moments, he would run hour-long fevers, chest pains, whooping cough-like expulsions in his mouth...and now, he had projectile vomitted. Nothing seemed to be able to explain these random attacks. Nobody understood the reasons for it. Doctor Stoneman had initally pinned it down to the clone limbs having trouble integrating with the body, but after a medical examination was run, it was made clear that wasn't the case, as the brain's neural responses were reacting as expected with the cloned appendages, treating them like any other limb._

_So what the hell was wrong with him? How long until all these aches and pains turned into something serious? Like...a heart attack? Organ failure? Internal hemorrhaging?_

_He had to admit it...the thought worried him._

_It was several more minutes before Tali returned with Stoneman in tow, the quarian immediately taking her place at Shepard's side as she grasped his hand. He immediately noticed her body language: head hung low, unwilling to meet his eyes, her hands tightening around his in a vice like grip. He would have winced in pain if he wasn't so focused on her posture. Concern for himself faded away as it turned into concern for her: her entire demeanour had changed, and he wanted to know why. Why was she refusing to look at him?_

_His eyes turned to Doctor Stoneman as he spoke, the man's voice gravelly, "Commander...we've had the opportunity to run some tests over the past month to try and explain your condition. As you know, these randoms attacks throughout your body have been puzzling our staff, as we've never seen anything like it before, nor should it be happening at all. Physically, you should be the picture of health aside from your barely functioning right leg. Physical therapy should be doing the work for you. But as we've discovered-"_

_Concern for Tali turned into a dawning realization. Now he knew why Tali wasn't looking at him. Doctor Stoneman had identified what was plaguing him. And based on Tali's refusal to even looking at him, her body posture practically radiating regret and sadness, not for herself, but for him, he knew one thing._

_It was bad news._

_Impatient and just wanting Stoneman to get to the point, he found himself raising a hand to cut him off, licking his lips cautiously, "Doctor, please...just get to the point. Hit me."_

_The doctor tongued the inside of his cheek as he raised his datapad, shaking his head, "I could give you the medical technicalities, but I'm sure most of it would go over your head...and that you wouldn't particularly care," he added that last line upon seeing Shepard's frown turn into an ill-tempered glare, "...so I'll give it to you plain and simple. Commander, for whatever reason, reasons of which we will investigate, our medical implants are reacting violenty to the older augments grafting most of your important organs together. The two technologies are entirely disparate, one being more advanced the other, performing their functions differently to the other. As such, it seems assimilating them with our less advanced medical implants has had...unforeseen side effects. Namely, your body, in attempting to be neutral, has inadverently become a casualty of this war of the implants going on inside your body."_

_His throat felt dry. His eyes were becoming blurred. He gulped, despite the aching sting that reverbrated down his mouth into his throat, "What...what does that mean? What's happening to me?"_

_The doctor simply continued, sparing him a minute glance at most, "Its difficult to explain, for not even we understand most of it, but it appears your body, in response to the disassimilation between your old and new implants, has begun openly attacking itself. Because your old implants are essentially one with your body, keeping it 'stitched together' as it were, and the fact your new implants are attempting the same, the body is unable to differentiate between what is part of it, and what isn't. As a result, its simply resorting to both. And because the implants are, technically, part of your body..."_

_"My body is killing itself," he shuddered, finally sparing Tali another look. He saw the look in her eyes, the quarian now looking directly at him, and he squeezed her hand in return. He turned back to his doctor, voice grave and solemn, "How...how much time do I have?"_

_Doctor Stoneman looked up from his datapad, crossing his arms, "Typically, this you'd be dead by mid March. All your major organs would shut down and your implants would eventually fail, causing you to blackout and die in your sleep. However, with help from your medical officer, Doctor Chakwas, and from the woman involved in your apparent resurrection, Miss Lawson, we may be able to develop a treatment. A way that prevents your death, with minimal impact to your life."_

_He looked at Tali for a second, the quarian piping up in interest, giving Shepard a new found hope. If she didn't know about this, then perhaps his fate isn't entirely decided. He squeezed her hand again, before turning back to the doctor, simply giving him a nod._

_Stoneman took that as his invitation, "Miss Lawson is going to help us introduce more implants to your body. These will incorporate the medical tech of our implants, with the technological makeup of your older augments. In theory, these implants will act as 'mediators' that will counteract the impulses dispersed by your implants that are causing the body to react negatively to itself. In theory, this will stabilize your condition, and cease your body from self-attack. However, there is one problem..."_

_"What?" he asked quickly, wanting to dispense with any potential issues._

_"Exerting yourself too heavily will overwhelm the new implants' ability to counteract the impulses. Your body will essentially override it, and subsequently revert back to hurting itself. This could potentially result in a far worse reaction, as your body, through massive exertion, will fatigue itself in the process, resulting in your body shutting down temporarily. This will give your implants time to 'reboot' your body as such, but the damage as a result could have unknown side effects we don't yet know about. You shouldn't risk it."_

_He stared back blankly at the doctor, furrowing his brow in decision. He could either take the surgery, and kiss his life goodbye in a couple of months as his body slowly deteriorated, or he could take the procedure, and live a relatively normal life, but at the cost of having to carefully regulate his adrenaline and how tired he got. It wasn't ideal, but he knew before he even considered it what his option would be._

_"I'll take the procedure," he declared, Tali's head snapping back to him and meeting his gaze. He tried to convey as much reassurance as he could in one look, and it seemed to have the intended effect, because she simply nodded, her approval noted. He turned back to the doctor, and bobbed his head, "Have your staff make the necessary preparations. I'll wait here and...try not to die." His dry wit in any other situation probably would have been warranted, but not now. He had only done it to distract himself._

_Turns out, he hadn't escaped the Citadel as scot-free as he thought he had. Not only did he have a permanent limp, but now he would have to worry about collapsing at any moment. It was a wonder he was even able to stand up at this point. Still, he should have expected this. Nobody, not even a cybernetically-enhanced supersoldier, could walk out of being buried under several tons of concrete and plastisteel and expect to live a normal life afterwards._

_Victory always had its cost. Just turned out his was a phantom one._

_Stoneman nodded and proceeded to ghost out of the room, door closing behind him within moments of his departure. He was left alone, with Tali, and after a few moments, he turned to her, providing a weak smile, "Well...it could be worse...right?"_

_Whatever her answer would have been, it was cut off by her wrapping her arms around him, and beginning to sob into his shoulder, rocking him back and forth as she held him, as if terrified he would dissolve into ash if she let go. All he could do was return the embrace, and try to hold back tears of his own, maintaining the veneer of Commander Shepard even whilst his body was in the middle of decimating itself._

_But as his eyes closed and he held her, an ear-piercing klaxon tore through the air, startling him. His eyes shot wide open, adrenaline seeping into his body, and the klaxon sounded again, its electronic shriek of the damned the most terrifying sound he had ever heard. And for good reason._

_The Reaper horn sounded again, causing him to cry out in alarm, pulling back from Tali, confused as to why she hadn't reacted like she should have. There was a Reaper outside, and all Tali could do was embra-_

He shot up, sheets falling from his naked torso as he heaved in air desperately. He quickly did a scan of his surroundings, and found the sterile white walls of his hospital room gone, replaced by the inviting, bronze-like polish of wooden walls. The bed he was in was far more comfortable too, and he could practically feel the soft, double padded mattress holding him up, his body wrapped neatly in a blanket that felt as light as silk compared to his old bed on the  _Normandy_. Light streamed in from the window to his right, heralding a new day. The windowed door was open, allowing him to hear and smell the cacophony of the waves down below.

It took him seconds to realize where he was. He was safe. He was home.

The lights were dimmed, so he quickly pulled the sheet off of him, and sat on the edge, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. He stretched his relaxed muscles, enjoying the satisfying series of pops that signalled his cracking bones. He repeated this with the rest of his body, before reaching over and grabbing his shirt from the floor, quickly putting it on to stave off the chill he was now exposed to, one not even the warmth of Tikkun could protect him from. He scratched his chin, ignoring the light stubble growing there. In his time since arriving on Rannoch, he had gotten so distracted that his military discipline had begun to fall apart, giving way to the growth of a beard: sure, what he had now was well within regulation, but Shepard had never really allowed it to grow ever, believing that if he didn't have a beard to begin with, then he wouldn't have to worry about keeping it within regs. With no CO or officers to remind him, he was beginning to slack off.

He stood up, but before he could do anything, he heard that damning sound again: the electronic pitch of a Reaper. His reflexes took over, Shepard ducking behind his bed as he reached for a pistol at his hip that wasn't there. His lips quivered, thinking of all the different routes into the room that existed, and his fight or flight instinct kicked in. He scanned the room, quickly surveying a weapon he could use: if he could break off one of the posts holding the bed up, he could use that as a bludgeon. Before he could spring into action however, the sound came again, this time far less intense.

It was a door bell.

He cursed himself.  _I mistook a door bell for a Reaper. 'Atrophy of the mind', alright. I'm fucking losing it._

He allowed himself a moment to breathe in and focus, closing his eyes as he willed away his combat instincts and mind set. For three years he had conditioned himself to react immediately to the sound of that horn: the war cry of his arch nemesis, the galaxy's worst foe. He had honed his senses to react the slightest possible threat, and right now, his mind couldn't differentiate.

Steadily, he felt his tensed up muscles relaxing, and he stood up, willing himself to ignore the compulsion to act upon his inclinations. He took a deep breath in, and then out, flexing his fingers as he closed his eyes, focusing away from what his mind was telling him. This hadn't been the first time he had 'reacted' to something in this way: back on Earth, the sound of a sheet of steel being dropped by a worker outside had sounded like a gunshot, and it had taken Tali telling him to calm down to stop him from leaping from the bed to take cover. Another significant one had been on their quarian transport to Rannoch, during a visit of the bridge (the captain, upon realizing who he was, had insisted on it). One of the navigators had reported a passing ship, and Shepard had almost barked out orders to deploy a thanix cannon the ship didn't have, to activate a stealth system the ship didn't possess and to begin evasive maneveurs, which the unwieldy, slow vehicle wasn't capable of. The captain had expressed surprise, but after a word from Tali, he seemed to drop it.

He knew what he was suffering from: despite his apparently above-mortal-man reputation, he was still human, and suffered from the same things all soldiers, especially veterans, were afflicted by. Post traumatic stress disorder wasn't uncommon, and in a war like that in which they had scarcely survived, it would be a surprise if he hadn't come out with somekind of mental issues. Barking orders to transport captains, taking cover from clumsy construction workers and mistaking door bells for Reaper war horns were just three of the many instances in which his PTSD had taken control from him.

As such, Doctor Chakwas' simple suggestion of focusing on something other than the war, and for the most part, it seemed to work. Choosing to focus on a happier memory, he felt himself relaxing, and after a moment, he felt well enough to move again, and turned around. The bed was a mess, but it took him next to no time to realize its second occupant was missing.

"Bad dream again?"

Looking up, he saw Tali standing in the doorway leading to their personal bathroom, steam pouring out from the open door, which demonstrated she had just finished having a shower. She was wearing the upper portion of her suit, with everything against her head now covered, hood down and her hair still damp. She had a small smile in the corner of her mouth, her arms crossed as she leaned against the doorway, looking back at him. He sighed.

"Nothing more than usual," he explained, reaching down to recover his pants. He hastily put them on, and walked around the bed over to her position, "Just...another memory."

She seemed to understand this, as she dropped the topic with a nod. However, he wasn't sure if that was simply her way of showing she understood he didn't want to talk about it, or that she understood the meaning behind his words. Either way, she was quick to move on, "I heard the door bell ringing."

He frowned at that, nodding as he regarded the entrance to their bedroom, "Yeah...we expecting visitors?"  _Garrus and Kasumi aren't supposed to arrive until late afternoon. So if its not them...then who is it?_

She shook her head, shrugging, "No. Shala and Han are too busy with Admiralty Board meetings to pay a visit. Keelah, I'd be with them if I hadn't requested the day off. And there's nobody else on this planet who knows where we are or would want to visit us...at least, not that I know of."

He pondered her for a moment, glance switching between the door and the quarian engineer. He then began to chuckle, a smile finally peeling across his lips as he turned to her, Tali frowning deeper at his antics, baffled by his sudden amusement. She wouldn't have to wait long for clarification.

He turned to her, grinning like an idiot, "Better not be Shepardist missionaries, coming to tell us to accept their 'Lord and Saviour'. I don't want people telling me to come and tell me to worship myself."

Tali giggled, not because she got the joke, but because she was genuinely happy and surprised to see Shepard this amused. Most of his dry wit, sarcastic comments and teasing behaviour that she and the rest of the crew had grown to love during their adventures had become somewhat muted after the war, Shepard becoming more glum, withdrawn and, in some cases, fatalistic. To see him actually  _laughing_...hardly for the first time, but still...it was something to be cherished. She missed the old Shepard, and she craved the return of what she was seeing now. That's why she had been looking forward to Garrus and Kasumi coming by. She knew he loved her deeply, and that he had been the one to suggest moving to Rannoch, but she knew that he missed hanging out with Garrus, who he considered his best friend. There were things he could do with Garrus that he just couldn't do with Tali. He needed this.

After a moment of them laughing, the door bell rung again. They both regained control of themselves, Shepard looking almost revitalized from the simple action of displaying his gaiety. Reaching up and squeezing her shoulder, he nodded to her, "Finish getting dressed. I'll go downstairs and see who our guests are."

He swiftly left the room and ran down the stairs, swiftly arriving at the door. Normally, having a door with a glass window did wonders for immediately identifying who was waiting outside your door: however, Shepard and Tali were far too paranoid for that (their military mindset, to be fair, left no room for complacency), so not only was the door devoid of any window or glass of any kind, but the door was internally madeup of a bulletproof alloy known as yipidilite, one minded on the turian world of Parthia, and one that was largely impervious to most forms of gunfire. It looked like wood on the outside, with the alloy lined within the interior. It wouldn't be able to withstand a rocket launcher of course, but it would take multiple breaching charges to destroy the door, so there was that at least.

The motto of the Shepard and Tali household was: why make it easy for them?

As a result, Shepard quickly brought up his omni-tool and accessed the security mainframe, quickly establishing a link in a split second. He selected the scanning subcommand, which allowed him to quickly locate and discern any omni-tools in the vicinty of the house. He found two, and without waiting further, he directed the computer to draw up their IDs and send them to his omni-tool. His eyes widened in surprise at the names presented, which quickly gave way to a smile.

Closing his omni-tool, he walked over to the door, and inputted his registration code, opening the door in an instant. Once all the locks had clicked open, and a final clang was heard from the main lock sliding away, he grabbed the handle and pulled it open.

Greeted by the sight of a blue-armoured turian reaching for the door bell again, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly as he tried to figure out why the house had such an archaic version of a visitor intercom. Upon hearing the door open, the turian's mandibles twitched and he turned to address the new presence. Their eyes met, and they stood still for a few moments.

Then they both grinned.

"Good to see you again, you ugly bird."

"The pleasure's all mine, you filthy primate."

The human and turian stood for a few moments more, before the two reached towards each other and wrapped the other in a hug, slapping each other's backs in a brotherly embrace. After a few moments, they pulled back, Shepard grinning wide, "You're early! Its only 8:00am in the morning!"

"Oh..." the turian rubbed the back of his neck, coughing awkwardly. He looked off to the side, apparently looking for someone, before turning back to Shepard, "...I was afraid that would be the case. Kasumi, you see, assured me we'd arrive late afternoon, as we had planned. Apparently she failed to inform me just how disparate the time zones are..."

Shepard gripped the edge of the doorway, his other hand holding the door open, before he sighed, the two men looking at each other. Garrus finally broke the silence, letting out a deep exhale, "Kasumi. It appears her pranks know no bounds. She did this on purpose. Makes sense now...you look like...shit? I believe that's your charming human expression."

He nodded, rubbing the soreness from his eyes. He realized how he must have looked: hair a mess, eyes droopy and no doubt excreting a bit of a smell, "I haven't showered yet."

"That much is obvious. I can smell you. Soooooooo glad turians don't sweat."

"Its the only thing I find envious about you."

"Admit it...you're still jealous of the scars. I'm sure Tali has expressed her disappoint once or twice."

"Keep deluding yourself, Vakarian."

It took Shepard less than a few seconds to realize that Garrus was alone. Frowning, he popped his head out to look from side to side, but alas, there was no sign of their master thief. Pulling back, he eyed Garrus with a narrowed frown, which the turian seemed to be pointedly ignoring...or avoiding.

"Garrus...where's Kasumi?"

"Well, uh, you see she's currently in the middle of-"

"-breaking through your security!"

The sound of an electric crackle immediately alerted Shepard to what had happened, and he turned around with an unimpressed look as Kasumi Goto, master thief, stood behind him, hands on her hips and a big, wide, 'innocent' smile currently spread cross her lips. It was clear from her presence behind him that, somehow, she had circumvented the house's security system. Although, considering her hacking abilities and that she had managed to pull off entire heists against mansions with security systems superior to what he had (one of which he had personally been witness to and taken part in), he really shouldn't be surprised.

"Hello Kasumi," he dryly greeted, trying to sound unamused and failing, "Was it really that difficult to wait for me to answer the door before you broke into our house?"

She shrugged, crossing her arms, "Shouldn't have kept us waiting then. We rang the door bell seven times, Shep."

"I was asleep and Tali was having a shower."

"Tali can do that?"

"Kasumi..."

She held up her hands defensively, although it definitely wasn't a placating stance. He knew Kasumi: she was as mischevious as the best of them, "Well...at least you woke up. I was  _strongly_ considering hacking into the house's wireless intercom and blasting  _Nichiyōbi ni watashi o matsu_  on full bore to wake you up. Believe me,  _far_ more effective than an alarm."

"Kasumi, I would have to sic Urz on you if you did that."

"Urz wouldn't hurt me! I have treats!"

"He's a carnivore, Kasumi."

"...I have meaty treats!"

Exasperated, he shook his head and finally allowed himself to smile, "Well, despite breaking-and-entering Kasumi, I won't report you to the authorities."

"Oh Shep, you spoil me!" she laughed, reaching over and embracing him, "Nice to see you too. Although..." she quickly withdrew, pincing her nose comically and waving a hand through the air, "You really  _do_  stink."

"Well, if you had the common decency to wait for us to wake up normally so I could, you know, shower..."

"And where would the fun be in-?"

"Kasumi!" she shouted a thickly accented voice from upstairs, the greeting followed by the rapid pitter patter of feet descending on wooden floorboards echoing through the house as the purple suited form of Tali came into view, excitedly rushing to greet her friend.

"Fishbowl!" Kasumi replied in equal excitement, turning around to address her quarian friend, who she considered to be a little sister, with open arms. The two embraced tightly for a few moments, before pulling back much like Shepard and Garrus had. They looked over each other before Tali spoke again, her tone high pitched and radiant as she began to bounce on her toes.

"Oh, Kasumi! You haven't seen our house! I've got my  _own_ workshop! And keelah, the house is so  _big_! There's so much  _space_! Its amazing!"

The thief pretended to ponder on that, before grinning wide, grabbing Tali's hand before guiding her into the lounge room next door, "Perhaps you should show me!"

"Yes!" was the quarian's eager reply, the guide quickly transformed into the guided as Tali reversed their position and held Kasumi's hand as she practically yanked her away into the opposite room, eager to explore the house with her hooded friend. They disappeared into the opposite room, talking in excited tones, uncaring for how loud they were.

Leaving Garrus and Shepard completely forgotten.

They turned to each other, and Shepard just shrugged, "Women."

Garrus just smirked, "Leave the girls to their talk. I've got something you might be interested in, and it doesn't involve talk."

He raised an eyebrow at the turian, intrigued, "You had me at 'leave the girls.'"

The turian slapped his hands together, rubbing them, a human gesture that Shepard seemed to have imparted upon every crew member at this point, regardless of their species, "I brought our rifles. Made sure to snag your old M-97 from the  _Normandy_ before we left for the Citadel. And of course, I brought the object of my triumph, my trusty M-92. I actually got it custom painted...in honor of my victory over you."

Shepard knew exactly what he was referring to, and just rolled his eyes, "I'm sure the people will be rolling out to get their 'king of the bottle shooter' merchandise while stocks last."

Garrus pointed an accusing finger, "You laugh now, but when you see quarians taking their first, unsuited steps on Rannoch with my face plastered on their shirts, you'll be the one wishing you had such merch."

"You're unbelievable."

The turian just continued to smirk, "So is that a yes?"

He nodded, "You bet it is. One thing first, though."

"What?"

"I need a shower."

There was a low growl, followed by a playful bark, and Garrus froze up for a brief moment, turning towards the stairway, mandibles tightening against his jaw, "Oh spirits, not you."

Urz stood next to the stairs, looking up at the turian with beady eyes, hind legs preparing it for a rapid sprint to close the distance. Its eyes were wide and locked onto him, and he showed no sign of breaking off.

Shepard, on his way upstairs, caught wind of Urz, and glanced between the two of them for a moment before chuckling. He held up a finger for Garrus to stay put, before turning back to the varren, "Urz, stay. Don't move an inch."

The varren did as ordered, sitting on its posterior and cocking its head at Garrus with curiosity. Garrus clearly didn't like the kind of curiosity he was exerting. The turian remained plastered to where he stood though, eying the varren with a glare. Seconds later, the scruffy ex-commander returned to the home, and waved a non-descript bone in the varren's face. Urz's attention was immediately grabbed, and without further waiting, Shepard dropped the bone at the varren's feet, which he wasted no time in quickly ripping apart. Satisfied, Shepard chuckled and made his way upstairs, making sure to leave a passing comment, "If the 'king of the bottle shooters' needs any further assistance with curious varren, don't hesitate to call me."

"How funny."

* * *

 _Rannoch - December 16, 2187_ _\- 35 minutes later_.

The rifle kick back was slight, but fierce, the familiar and welcome recoil biting into his shoulder as it sent a vest-pocket, smooth ball of metal hurtling through the air at a velocity that defied basic, on-the-spot human perception. It slammed into its target, shattering the glass bottle with its sheer kinetic impact, before continuing unimpeded through it, hitting a rock twenty meters behind it with a twang. In the time it took for the bullet to hit the rock, the glass fragments of the destroyed bottle were still in mid air, and a split second after its aggressor had departed, the remains hit the ground, individual shards gleaming in the sunlight.

A rifle was lowered, and the shooter smirked smugly, wracking back the slot of his weapon to shave off a fresh projectile from the shaving block inside, before letting the slot slide back into place, loading the projectile into the chamber, and priming it for ejection.

"And that, as they say...is how its done," the turian joked.

Shepard simply raised his M-97 Viper, took aim, and within two seconds, had fired off a series of shots in quick succession. One bottle, two bottles, three...all of them exploded within seconds of each other, Shepard exhaling deeply from the breath he was holding as he lowered his weapon, the semi-automatic rate of fire afforded to him by his Viper allowing him to easily pour off more shots in the time it took Garrus to reload from just one.

Shepard grinned, happy with himself as he eyed the smoking barrel of his weapon.  _I've still got it. N7 hones skills into their members with the intention of it lasting._

The turian whistled, "No need to show off Shepard, I was just having a little fun. Glad to see you haven't gotten soft, lying around in bed all day."

Shepard rolled his eyes, quickly noting that all the bottles were gone, and that he should probably grab some new ones, "Its okay Vakarian, you're just afraid the truth about your supposed victory over me being heavily overpitched will come out. But fear not...your secret is safe with me."

Garrus nodded, but his smirk diminished somewhat, eying Shepard as he returned to their skycar to grab some more bottles. Garrus hadn't actually brought any empty bottles: the two had been sharing beers this entire time, using the empty bottles as targets for their competition. Garrus for feeling a bit whoozy, but Shepard was unaffected, crossing the distance between their makeshift range and the skycar with unwavering precision. His cybernetics had always helped in siphoning alcohol from his system.

When Shepard had reached the skycar, reaching down to retrieve five bottles from the growing pile, Garrus spoke, "You let me win that day."

Frowning, Shepard stood up, bottles in hand, looking directly at his turian friend, "What?"

The turian just chuckled, "That day during the war, when we were shooting those bottles up on the presidium. We had just come back from recruiting the Leviathans, I think. You missed the sixth bottle, and I assumed I had genuinely bested you. You let me believe that. But...after seeing you shoot just now, I can't believe it hasn't occurred to me that you let me win."

Shepard shrugged, walking over with the bottles, "Would it really have mattered if you knew?"

The turian sighed, scratching one of his mandibles, "So you did miss on purpose. So there I was, bragging about my superior sharpshooting capabilities, when you easily could have kept up with me, shot for shot."

He placed the bottles on the rocks lining the perimeter of their range, careful to dodge the shards of glass around them. He was wearing his N7 cap with a simple singlet draped over his chest, cargo shorts and a pair of heavy duty combat boots. The glass crunched underneath his feet as carefully laid out the bottles, "I was special forces, Garrus. I have the utmost confidence in your abilities as a sniper...in fact, I'd trust you with any mission that required a sniper. But when you do the math...sure, you served in the military, but basic sniper training isn't compareable to that of an N7 operative. We've been trained to snipe in standard environment, low and high gravity, zero-G, on the move, using a thruster pack, without a spotter, etc."

"Yeah, I get it," Garrus acknowledged, watching Shepard as he returned, "But why?"

Looking at the turian for a moment, he thought about what to say, and then licked his lips as he replied, looking down at his rifle as he prepped a fresh thermal clip, "Simple. You're like my brother, Garrus. I don't need you to prove anything to me. I know for a fact that if I left you to watch my back on a battlefield, I could do so and not have to worry. You can roll with the rest of them. I know it'd be the same if the roles were reversed. That competition...it was stress relief, you know that. None of it was genuine. And if it boosted my friend's morale to let him have his own victory...then I didn't see any reason not to entertain you. My skills on the battlefield speak for themselves, Garrus. I don't need a bottle shooting competition to decide who's the better sniper out of the two of us."

"Fair enough," was the simple reply, followed by a loud crack. Shepard looked up, watching the remains of one of the bottles hit the ground. He looked up at the turian, who had obviously taken aim and fired while Shepard was talking. The turian turned back to him, smiling, "What? You were having another one of your speeches. You take too long."

"I've heard many people like my speeches," Shepard replied faux-poutingly, hefting his rifle up as he readied it against his shoulder again, "I'll agree I get a little long-winded, but that's all part of the charm."

"You start off inspiring," Garrus replied, firing another shot, taking out another bottle, "And then you get annoying. Kasumi agrees with me. She plays somekind of game on her omni-tool halfway through your speeches. Something called pinball."

"Way to kill my flow, Garrus."

"Only too happy to please."

They continued for another hour until they were out of empty bottles and thermal clips. Returning their rifles to the skycar's trunk, the two of them sat on the bonet, nursing their last bottles of beer. They spent the next few minutes in silence, simply enjoying their drinks whilst watching the ocean roaring down below, the beach empty and absent of any civilized life as it was largely cut off from on foot access.

After a moment, Shepard spoke, nudging his friend in the side with an elbow, "So...you and Kasumi? Thoughts on...what you're going to do next? She tried to convince you to visit Japan yet?"

"Yes, I...wait, how did you know about that?"

"Tali told me Kasumi told her about it."

"Argh," he groaned, rubbing his face with a talon before taking another sip of his drink, "No, I haven't given it much thought. Not since you unceremoniously, and without warning, dumped a heap of responsibility on me."

He bobbed his head in understanding, "Wouldn't have done it if I didn't think you could handle it. Besides, you said yourself you have no intention of retiring anytime soon. 'Much to be done and much to rework', you said. Figured making you a Spectre would help you with that. You've proven to me that you've earned it. You're not that naive, vigilante C-Sec officer anymore."

"I know, I understand it. I do. Its just...I've always known the Council was a pain in the ass, but having a front row seat to it this time, a real front row seat, puts things into perspective. How did you maintain restraint with them? How could you be so patient?"

Shepard took another sip, pondered the question, and then answered, "Politicians require a deft touch, Garrus. As Parasini once eloquently put it, 'you can't bludgeon through bureaucracy.' I learnt that early on. There are different types of enemies, and you've got to find the right type of ammo to kill them with. Sometimes its with cold hard facts, sometimes its with actual bullets. Other times, its by learning to sit down, shut up and listen to what the other side has to say, and then finding a way to point out how stupid they are and make sure you have an audience when you're doing it."

"The fine art of tolerance," Garrus sarcastically jested. After a moment, he spoke again, turning to Shepard uneasily, "You know...they almost gave the OPSCOM an order to bring you in if you didn't come in on your own."

"You passed along my warning against that?"

"That I did. They stood down," he dryly revealed, "It was satisfying to see them brought down a notch. I think you've humbled them, Shepard. They're not quite as...dismissive of you or the people you've worked with anymore. They take more notice."

Shepard just snorted, "Tends to happen when you've been trying to discredit a guy for three years by calling him a liar and a psychopath only to learn that he's been right the entire time and you've been caught telling a fib. Even if the Council didn't find the path to humility by themselves, you can bet the galactic public has given them a helping hand. They must have been pissed."

"Pissed doesn't cover it, but I'm sure you've kept up with the news," Garrus confirmed.

Silence reigned, and then Shepard spoke again, "So back to my first question...you and Kasumi? You think you can settle down with her?"

The response he got was a laugh, "Oh no, we're not like you and Tali, Shepard. No offense, but Kasumi and I are creatures of action. Staying put is something that would never compute with her, and I don't think it would with me either. Ever since you relinquished command of the  _Normandy_ and given me your Spectre status, I've been running special assignments of galactic peace for months. Kasumi's ocassionally gone to do her own thing, but she's come along for a few rides. We're keeping busy, Shepard. But settle down? Maybe, but only when we're old and can barely stand up."

Shepard nodded along to everything the turian was going to say, having predicted most, if not all, of it, "Makes sense. Tali made the same observation, I just wanted to hear it from you. I wouldn't have chosen this life myself if I wasn't sure its what I wanted."

"You did retire pretty early for someone your age. You're only 28, right?"

"30, if you count the two years I spent dead. Which I'm not."

"So yeah...pretty early retirement."

"I'm not retiring from work entirely, Garrus," he emphasized, placing his bottle after finishing it, "I'm just resigning from the military life. No more war...no more jobs that require holding a gun. I want to try something more...mundane. Casual. After building the house...well, I wouldn't say no to doing a course in construction."

"You'd grow bored inside of an hour."

"Give me a chance, Garrus."

"I am. I'm just being realistic."

"You mean a pessimist."

"Same thing."

For the next few minutes, they simply sat there, chatting back and forth about their life aspirations and what they had planned. The nice thing about it, the truly special thing...was that this was the first, truly relaxed conversation he had with his friend since the war had ended. There was no looming threat hanging over them. No mission demanding their attention. He didn't have to worry about returning to his cabin to read mountains of paperwork, along with enough casualty and after action reports to warrant writing an omnibus. He could simply share a drink with a friend without the worry of climbing back into his armor after they were done.

Done chatting, Garrus decided this was the best time to bring up his idea, "Kasumi brought this up on the way here, and I agree with her. Its been months since we've seen each other, Shepard. The crew, the squad, everyone...one we realized you were alive and the relays were up and running, everybody went off to do their own thing. Its hard to believe its been a year since we've all been in one room. I think we should change that."

Shepard felt a smile growing, "What did you have in mind?"

"What would you say to a reunion party at your house? We could prepare it."

"Garrus, that sounds like a great idea! It'd give us a chance to meet with the squad again...but where would we get the supplies? The quarians don't exactly have supermarkets up and running yet."

"That's not a problem. With everybody pitching in, and a little bit of express delivery thanks to me abusing my Spectre authority and turning the  _Normandy_ into a cargo ship, we can get everything we need here."

"Wait, the  _Normandy_? You have the  _Normandy_?"

"You hadn't heard?" Garrus asked. Noticing the man's slack jawed expression, it was obvious Shepard didn't, so he elaborated, "The  _Normandy_ 's no longer an Alliance ship. They relinquished her to the Council as a gesture of peace and cooperation in the aftermath of the war. As such, you're speaking to the latest commanding officer of the CSS  _Normandy_ SR-2. CSS stands for 'Council Spectre Ship', btw. Spectres get their own ships now. Bet you wish you hadn't given up the title now, eh?"

"Certainly would have been helpful during the early days, I'll give you," he replied, "And I'm glad you're in command of it. I can't think of anybody who I'd trust more with that ship. So...reunion party. When would we do it?"

"Well...are you okay with it?"

" _Okay?_  Garrus, I've been marooned on a planet-"

"Self-imposed exile, mind you."

"Shut up," he continued, "-on a planet for an entire year with nobody but Tali to speak to as a familiar face. Only people I've interacted with personally are Tali's aunt and uncle, the odd quarian and the geth that helped me build the house. You're the second familiar face I've met since being stuck here! With that being said, you ask if I'm  _okay_ with a party?"

"So...that's a yes then."

"Garrus, you could land the  _Normandy_ in our front yard if it meant I could at least talk to someone other than my girlfriend."

"Don't tempt fate. Joker  _has_ been itching for a chance to test out his piloting skills. He feels they're going to waste now that we have no Reapers to play tango with."

The two clinked their bottles together, enjoying the next hour joking, laughing, exchanging thoughts and having fun.

It was the most amusement Shepard had found in over a year.

* * *

 _Rannoch - December 16, 2187 - An hour later_.

"So...has he asked yet?"

Tali's train of thought was derailed in an instant. They were in her workshop, or at least that's what she called it, at the back of the garage. A large work bench stretched from one side of the side to the other, with the draws and walls lined with tools, three terminals and a litany of other objects for her to work with. Currently, her combat drone, Chiktika vas Paus, was disassembled, its parts splayed across the bench in a mess that would be unidentifiable or indistinguishable to anyone else but Tali, who could identify every single part without issue, and where it went.

The two had migrated to the workshop after finishing the tour of the house, the two chatting while Tali occupied herself with some work, namely upgrading Chiktika's processing power to allow Tali to upgrade it with further functions. She had been meaning to do so, and now that she had the means, she leapt on the opportunity.

Shaken from her concentration by Kasumi's question, who was sitting ontop of the bench to her right, she blinked, looking up to the thief, cocking her head to the side, "Sorry?"

Kasumi's smile indefatigable, shaking her head, "Oh come on Tals, you know what I mean. Has he asked the big question yet?"

Tali, still genuinely confused, simply shrugged, returning to focusing on the upgrades to her drone, "Kasumi, I honestly don't know what you're talking about. What is John supposed to have asked me?"

The nimble thief leapt down from the bench, leaning back against with crossed arms, while craning her head further down so she was just on the edge of Tali's peripheral vision: something she knew annoyed the quarian, but got her attention, "Isn't there a quarian tradition regarding this?"

"Regarding  _what_?" Tali replied with some light spleen, the quarian narked at her friend's elusive question, "Kasumi, what question is he supposed to have asked?"

Finally registering that her friend simply did not know what she was talking about, rather than being deliberately coy, the thief nodded, relenting, "Tali, I don't know about quarians, but with humans, it typically falls to the male to ask his partner to marry him eventually. We call it 'proposing'."

The answer to her question satisfied, the quarian fell still for a moment, eying the thief. On the outside, it may have seemed like she still didn't get it, but on the inside, within her mind, she was dealing with the information in her own way.

_Oh...she's asking if John has asked me to marry him yet. Right._

Barely able to give Kasumi a non-committal shrug as she turned back to her bench, Tali tried her best to form a response to the unexpected question, "Well...no, he hasn't, Kasumi."

Raising an eyebrow, the kleptomaniac persisted, prodding for more information as she always did, "Why not?"

Sighing, the engineer gave up trying to focus on her drone and braced against the bench, gripping it gently with her hands, "I...don't know. We've just never...discussed it, I guess. Haven't given it much thought. I know how I feel about him, and I know how he feels about me, but as to making it official? I couldn't say. John's been fairly distant as of late, and we've been so busy, we haven't had any time to think about anything else. Especially marriage."

"You think he's scared of commitment?"

"No!" she shouted defensively, before quickly retracting her stance, sounding a little less sure of herself, "I mean...keelah, I don't know. He barely talks about his feelings anymore. Yesterday, I got close, but he refuses to open up to me. Before, he could tell me anything. Everything was simpler during the war. We had a clear goal, an enemy to fight, and we could focus our emotions on the next battle. Now...its like he's aimless. He hardly laughs, and sometimes I think he only does it because he knows it'll make me happy, and whenever I catch him having nightmares, or in a bad state...he always shrugs it off. He's...not the man he used to be, Kasumi. So if you're asking me that if he's scared of commitment...I couldn't say. I don't think he is, but of course, I can't know if he doesn't tell me, right?"

"I guess that's fair," the thief returned unalloyed, her roguish smirk evaporating to be replaced with a sincere, understanding equivalent, "If I know Shep, he's got no problem with commital. I've watched you two for a while, and I know for a fact that he loves you, and you love him. You two getting married is a matter of when, not if. But if you think you're not reaching him...then you've got to find a way. Be more forceful."

She looked at Kasumi, frowning beneath her mask, "How?"

She reached out and grasped the quarian's shoulder, before raising her other hand doing the same with the opposite appendage, "You're his girlfriend, Tali. He trusts you implicitly, and from what I've heard, more often than not, you're the only person who can rein him in. He listens to you, trusts your opinion and feels safe having you watch his back. Are you going to allow that to count for nothing?"

She shook her head, "But I was never able to force myself on him back then, not emotionally. He's my-"

"-commanding officer?" the thief joked, shaking her head, "He's retired, Tali. In rank, he's equal to you now. He can't pull the 'I order you' card anymore. I mean, technically, since he's retired, and you're still an admiral,  _you_ have more authority than he does at the moment."

She sighed, slumping her shoulders, "I want him to open up to me because he feels safe to do so, not because I browbeat him into doing it. Kasumi, I just don't think this is something I should pressure him into doing. If I know him, and he's still the man I know, then he will come clean eventually. I just wish he'd do it sooner. This is supposed to be a new beginning for us, but this isn't how I imagined it."

Patting her shoulders, she embraced the quarian tightly, and after a moment, Tali returned it. Kasumi pulled back after a few seconds, smiling hearteningly, "Then by your own admission, he'll come clean eventually. If Shep feels unable to express his own feelings to you, then its probably not you that's the problem. Its him. He just needs time, like you said."

"Yeah," she replied peaceably, smiling with a nod, "Thanks."

"No problem," she winked, before pulling back and giving the quarian a knowing look, "Besides, once you two get married, the next question will be whether Shep is ready to raise a little one with you."

Reassured at first, she froze up again at the blatant statement, and felt herself downcast almost immediately at the thought.  _Yes...kids. We never really thought of that. We didn't have time for it. Keelah, children...the one thing I can't give him._

_The one thing I'm not sure he actually wants._

It wasn't like Tali hadn't posed this question to herself many times before. One of her many self-derogatory arguments against why Shepard should be interested in her was her inability to conceive a child with him. Their biological incompatibility was one obstacle between them that was impossible to surmount naturally. She wasn't an asari or a human, she was a quarian, and in being with Shepard, she knew she would have to sacrifice any hope of ever enjoying the complete feeling of bringing a child into the world, and of becoming a mother. She had learnt to accept that, and had never brought it up with John for that very reason. Why sabotage what they had with yearnings for what can never be?

But now Kasumi had reminded her just how much she  _did_ yearn for it. She had always wanted to have a child eventually, wanting to have the privilege of being a mother and watching her child, her flesh and blood, grow up. It was the same pleasure her mother had enjoyed when Tali was growing up, and her mother's mother, and their mother, and on it went. Quarian culture treated children as more than a sacred resource, but an encapsulation and validation of a bond. Tali had considered it an inevitable part of her future.

But she had sacrificed it all for John. Because he made her happy, and she made him happy.

_He probably doesn't want a child anyway. If he did, why hasn't he brought it up? Why hasn't he asked me? Is he afraid I'll say no? No, he's Shepard, he's not afraid to ask anything. If he truly wanted a child, he'd have asked for one. He's assuming I feel the same._

"Tali?" Kasumi piped up, breaking the quarian's thoughts and causing her gaze to lock with that of the concerned thief, "Is everything alright?"

She nods, backing up against the bench and crossing her arms, "I...yes, I'm...fine. Its not your fault, Kasumi, I just...I wasn't expecting that kind of question. Like bonding, we've never given it much thought. We just don't have the time. Besides..." she sighed, rubbing the back of her neck, one of her fingers playing idly with the fabric of her hood, "I don't think he's...interested in having a child. He's never brought it up. Not that we could of course...we're biologically incompatible. I can't give him a child. Its about the only fault I can find with the future of our relationship, not that I think our relationship is flawd of course, but I think that perhaps he-"

"Tali," the thief cut her off, "You're babbling."

Another sigh, "Sorry, this is...just a sensitive topic. I don't really want to talk about it."

"You have to talk about it at some point. No offense Tali, but you're an open book. I can tell you want a kid with Shep. Why haven't you brought it up?"

"Because..." Tali began softly, apparently worried Shepard might overhear them, despite he and Garrus having headed out over an hour ago, "...I don't want to lose him. I know it sounds silly, but I'm worried that just bringing the topic up could cause him to reevaluate our relationship. What if he thinks-"

The thief snorted, laughing a little. Noticing Tali's glare, Kasumi placed her hands on her hips, frowning at her, "Come on Tals, that's weak, even for you. You make Shep seem vain and self-indulgent. He cares for you, you know that, everybody knows that. To assume he's going to throw all you have away simply because you brought up the topic of children is silly and, candidly, I expect better from you, Fishbowl."

After a moment, the tension in the air withered away, the quarian's fists unclenching after she had subconsciously closed them, and Tali laughed, "Yeah...maybe I was being a bit stupid. I don't know, I always overthink these things. I just want us to be happy. I want to enjoy the victory we've won. He's in a critical period of recovery, Kasumi. I don't think he's truly gotten over his injuries yet, or the consequences they'll have. I...need to give him time. That's all. Some space and some time, and he'll open up. Then we'll start discussing...the future."

"Now  _that_ is more like it," Kasumi declared, giving her little adoptive sister a playful slap on the back, "Now how about we drop this topic, since its clearly off limits, and talk about something else? Likkeeeeee...a certain crew reunion that Garrus and I have planned."

Caught halfway returning to her bench to continue working on Chiktika's disassembled core, the quarian froze once more, this time far more sharply, and turned to her friend, captivated, "Reunion?"

Her smile was broad, "Yep. Garry is probably, or already has, brought it up with Shep. We were planning to have it here, at your place. Call it a 'house-warming party' crossed with a 'crew reunion'. Everybody would be invited of course, and before you ask, we've got supplies and invitations handled. You two only need to say the word."

"Kasumi, I don't know what to...say..." she trailed off for a moment, but quickly returned by embracing her, laughing lightly, "...that sounds  _great_! John and I will make arrangements as soon as possible, with your help, I imagine."

"Couldn't stop us helping even if you had Urz posted outside to scare Garrus off," was the thief's reply, and the two let go so Tali could turn back to her work. Before Tali could pick up the part she was reaching for though, she remembered something Kasumi had said, and with a giggle, turned back to the thief, eying her with cheerfulness, her previous conversation with the woman archived for the moment.

"By the way...'Garry'? You're still calling him that?"

The thief just grinned, "And Garbear."

"Oh  _keelah_."

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**Yeah, you can see now why this chapter took so long to write. And yes, I also promised that all future chapters in my stories would conform to an under-20k limit. Well, not all things go as planned and, in my defense, this chapter is the longest in my outline for Equilibrium, as it had more content to cover than the rest. As such, I don't foresee an issue like this occurring again. I couldn't remove any of the sections either, or simply move content over to another chapter, because a) I felt these events needed to occur in the order that they did and b) simply moving the sections to another chapter would have just lengthened those chapters, therefore all it would do is shift the problem to another chapter.** _

_**So, enjoy hopefully the only over-20k chapter in the story. Hopefully.** _

_**I probably didn't mention this before, but Equilibrium: Crusader is going to be a slow burn. I've had one or two PMs telling me that this story seems like its going to be happier and more fluffy than my other work. This may be true for the first chapters, but I promise you, once the main conflict rolls in, its going to get darker. In fact, the main conflict should begin to build up in the next chapter.** _

_**Next Flashpoint prompt is up next, just so everybody knows, then Chapter 3. Hopefully won't take as long as this chapter did.** _

_**Some more music suggestions:** _

**Physical Therapy: "Susan Speaks" by John Williams from the film** _**The Patriot.** _

**Down the Stairs: "Pretty Corny" by Rupert-Gregson Williams from the film** _ **Hacksaw Ridge**_ **(0:00 to 0:38 (news article scene), 0:39 to 1:30 (falling down the stairs)**.

 **The Watcher: "Bourne Gets Well" by John Powell from the film** _ **The Bourne Identity**_.

 **Cybernetic Rejection: "The Apartment" by Steven Price from the film** _ **Fury**_.

 **Visitors: "Homecoming" by Thomas Newman from the film** _ **Brothers**_.

 **Sniping and Baby Talk: "Night Graves" by Thomas Newman from the film** _ **Brothers**_.


	4. The Good Samaritan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious figure arrives on Illium, and feels a connection to a religious group known as the Shepardists. Shepard poses the question to Tali.

" _One doesn't defend one's god; one's god is in himself a defense."_ \- Henry James.

* * *

 _Spaceport, Nos Astra, Illium - December 18, 2187_.

He watched through the porthole beside his seat as the tall, slender spires of Nos Astra's skyscrapers slid into view, the harsh outline of Tasale making it seem as if the horizon was on fire. A great ball of heat, millions of kilometers away, and yet its size was as pertinent as it would be when flying past it in space. The petrifying heat of the sun boiled Illium's surface, creating a simmering oven that only barely constituted classification as a garden world. When the Asari Republics settled the world, they adapted to this by adopting an arcological approach: cities integrated within a massive vertical structure, raised several hundred feet above surface level, allowing those settling the planet to escape the nigh uninhabitable climate of Illium's surface.

The heat was no less felt though, and he knew he had planned well for the climate in choosing to stick with the clothing he had worn whilst on Rannoch. He had taken the time it had taken to get to Illium to think over the next step he was planning to take, the gleaming Illium vista distracting him as it cut into his vision. He had contemplated closing the porthole to block off the sight, but found he was too enamoured with it. Instead, he allowed himself to get lost in the rapidly approaching skyline of Nos Astra's megapolis, his thoughts taking a back burner.

Normally, it would have taken him a week to get to Illium, especially from somewhere as isolated and far away as the Perseus Veil. Luckily, upon returning to the El'Tivv spaceport, he had snagged a second class ticket aboard an asari express transport cruiser, which was not only far faster than the quarian transport he had used to get to Rannoch, but had enough fuel and power to skip most of the transit lanes, 'relay hopping' from one system to the next, cutting travel time in half. As a result, he was now descending into Nos Astra four days earlier than he would have normally.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at Nos Astra. Please brace for final descent. We hope you have enjoyed your flight, and it was a pleasure having you with us."

He had ignored the transport captain's trite statement of gratitude. He simply ignored it, and simply gripped his seat as the rumble of the compartment began to slightly increase as the transport rapidly decellerated and moved to land at the planet's spaceport. He hadn't been able to see it very well from orbit, but now that he could, he was barely paying any attention.

There were noticeable scars in the Nos Astran terrain. One skyscraper in the distance was missing its tip, black scorching tarnishing its former beauty. Rubble and debris littered the streets below, and another skyscraper was tipped over, leaning heavily against another dangerously, with dust and fresh debris occasionally falling from it. Work teams littered the landscape, scouring the ruins for their dead, while recovery craft removed debris. It was obvious from anyone that could see that Illium was recovering from the Reaper conflict faster than most, but they could not hide the fact that war had been brought to the sprawling ecumenopolis.

A pair of recovery craft, strobe lights flashing angrily, darted over their transport carrying between them a large piece of debris. But just as the transport reached the spaceport, he saw it, and he felt his eyes widen suddenly, and his breath catch in his throat. A few gasps could be heard from the passengers as well as they made their way over to the left side of the transport to get a better view.

It was one thing hearing about it, another to see it in person. While most of the spaceport was up and operational, including all the central docking bays for larger ships, the other half had been crushed, workers and RC vehicles darting in and out of the wreckage. The top of a skyscraper had collapsed ontop of one part of the spaceport, while the rest had been simply pancaked underneath the titanic corpse of a  _Sovereign_ -class Reaper. The two kilometer tall behemoth lay in its final resting place ontop of the spaceport, its blaring war horn deathly silent and city-levelling weaponry inactive. It did not move a leg, or suddenly reach out and kiss the transport with a lance of molten death. It lay perfectly still, unmoving...

...dead. An epitaph to the Reaper armada that had threatened all galactic life. Now a lifeless husk, devoid of any threat whatsoever, its body a living testament to the cycle that was finally victorious over them. Its body was currently surrounded by numerous small towships a tiny bit bigger than A-61 gunships, the Illium Council in the process of removing the Reaper bodies per the UGC's final directive (prior to its dissolution and subsummation of powers back to the Council) to recover all Reaper corpses and tow them into the nearest star. The Council had deployed special units part of the 'Reaper Disposal Task Force' which would oversee the recovery and destruction of all Reapers, ensuring that none were left and that none of the Terminus powers, or any of the other Council races for that matter, tried to keep the Reaper technology for themselves for personal benefit.

As such, it seemed removing larger Reapers, like the  _Sovereign_ -class currently lying lazily against the spaceport's detritus, required carefully amputating them, piece by piece, removing the legs, processing units, main power core, armor plating, etc. A tedious process, but it was getting done. It was projected that by 2199, no Reaper corpses would be left in existence, except for those placed in war museums, such as the Rannochian Reaper known as Oblivion.

The vanguards of their destruction...now reduced to exhibitions in a museum. Footnotes in history.

_And we all have one man to thank for that._

Finally fed up with his outside view, he tinted the porthole glass until it was pitch black, before turning back to his omni-tool and shutting it off.. He had done further research on Shepard, and after searching through numerous extranet sites and news links, he had found himself fascinated by a movement known as the 'Shepardists'. This movement had orchestrated numerous peaceful demonstrations and, in some rare cases, protests, across the galaxy. Earth had seen the majority of it, centered around Melbourne in Australia, where Shepard's father was born. The demonstrations were spreading however, and from what he had heard, they had begun to spring up on Illium as well, where the organization was currently headquartered.

He had to admit, he had been intrigued. Every since beginning his quest to find and learn about Shepard, his goal had never been clear. He was a man without direction or purpose, whose very memories were a haze, and there were nights where brief flashes would yield him little information, and what was there was cloudy, tenebrous and incoherent. The oldest memory he could even find within his mind was when he had woken up a month and a half ago in a cell at a Systems Alliance military rehabilitation facility in northern France. He had no recollection of how he got there, why he was there, or even what family he had or past. It was clear he was ex-military, as he wouldn't be in a military rehab facility otherwise, and his knowledge of certain tactics could only come from a military background. But beyond that...nothing. He knew next to nothing about himself. He was an enigma.

And yet...the first thing he chose to do when he woke up was to start learning about someone else, not himself. Here he was, on a quest to uncover the secrets of a man who he didn't even know, without any reservation for himself. Is it possible he  _did_ know this man? Could this be a memory triggered within his brain that was subliminally compelling him to interact with him in the hopes he would help him discover who he is? If that's the case, why couldn't the rehab facility's doctors help? What was wrong with him?

Why couldn't he remember?

_I must know what compels me to follow this man. To learn more about him. Perhaps he knows how to get my memory back. Perhaps it starts with him. Is that the reason?_

If it was...then why was he going to what amounted to a fan club for information?

The transport shuddered as it finished its docking procedure. The vessel rang with the sound of the magnetic clamps reaching out and slamming onto the hull of the ship, holding it firmly in place. Once the ship's captain announced it was okay for everybody to disembark, he made his move and stood up, slinging his backpack over his arms and pre-empting the actions of everybody else as they fumbled to stand and get their affairs in order. Children cried and laughed, parents yelled and sighed...one turian was practically barking orders at his family. He ignored them all, a silent spectre as he sifted through the crowd, making a beeline for the exit. Once he reached it, he practically stormed out, his long strides quicky and efficiently taking him down the docking arm and towards the spaceport proper.

Making his way out was no issue: he brought no possessions with him except the items in his backpack, his omni-tool and the clothes on his back. He had sold the skycar he had taken with him to Rannoch, using the money he got from it to rent accomodation on Illium during his stay: a basic, unremarkable apartment. As such, getting through customs, and then baggage retrieval, took him less than five minutes. Once he was outside, he quickly rented a taxi.

He would head to his apartment later: right now, he needed to follow up on a lead. He only needed to wait ten minutes for the taxi to arrive, the automated system allowing him to pick a destination and then relax as the autodrive system guided the skycar there on its own, utilizing Nos Astra's vast network of GPS tracking systems and advanced skylane guidance beacons. His destination was four kilometers southwest of the spaceport: the Nos Astra Showgrounds.

As the taxi took off and began its semi-long journey, he pulled up his omni-tool again, finding the extranet tab still open, readily displaying the Codex article on Shepardism he had been reading. Scrolling down, he found a list of their demonstrations and congregations, and just where he knew he'd find it, he found the latest objective in his obsessive assignment.

_Congregation - Illium, December 18, 2187 - 11:50am, upper Nos Astran time._

He double checked his chronometer to ensure he had indeed arrived on the planet at the correct time, and found that he had, with at least an hour and a half to spare before the congregation began: more than enough time to get there before it started.

The Shepardists were instrinsically connected to Shepard's development as a person, which is why he was so interested in them. For whatever reason his mind had conjured up, he could not bring it within him to confront the man directly, and thus, this seemed to be the only outlet for him to entertain. And while the Shepardist movement, or as somone were calling it, a 'cult', weren't exactly the afficionados on everything to know about Shepard, they were some of his most staunch supporters, and that was at least something to start with. Besides, ever since reading the first article on them, he had felt that same damn compulsion that told him he needed to meet them.

_If only these compulsions would yield some useful information. It's not like I'm asking for much, just enough to know why I'm chasing up leads on a man I hardly know._

Initially, he figured it was because of the same reason that drew the rest of the Shepardists: a common and mutual respect for the man who saved their lives, and a need to commerorate everything he had sacrificed and achieved as assurance the galaxy would never forget. And perhaps there was a small part of him that truly did want that: but to do so would require him to actually remember the life this man had saved, and considering he currently had a memory spanning six weeks, he couldn't really say he felt much debt towards Shepard.

No...he wasn't joining the Shepardists for that. He had a different function here. One that commanded he make contact with these people. But...what was it?

_Memory loss is a pain. If only I could remember. That would make things much easier._

But, whatever the cause, his memory was locked to him. There were pieces of the cosmic puzzle scattered across the galaxy, and he needed to put them together to create the bigger picture. He didn't know how he knew this, or even why it would fix anything, but he had to try. Even if only to find out why he was on Illium of all places.

From how he understood it, the Shepardist detachment located on Illium congregated every week at the Nos Astra Showgrounds (which had been abandoned after the war due to disrepair and the Illium Council too focused on other projects to care about 'reclaiming' it), doing so to discuss with the founder and co-founder of the organization the intricacies of their movement, what new developments had accrued and what to do next: it was also branded as a place of 'community', where families could gather to discuss their appreciation of the Savior of the Galaxy, and anyone could offer their opinions and insight. It seemed fairly innocent, and on the outside, it might have been. But such cultish symposiums were apparently looked down upon historically, and the extranet, as well as the numerous media corporations, had a field day deconstructing and tarnishing the Shepardists.

While Earth/human-based media companies such as ANN, FCC, CNN and Westerlund News seemed to paint the organization in a positive light (probably because of Shepard being human), others were not so kind. The NANC (Nos Astra News Corp) published near daily editorials and opinion pieces either mocking the group or highlighting their 'puerile' behaviour. Apparently, in the age of enlightenment, worshipping your hero was painted in a negative light. But while the media elongated its daily manipulative and pejorative journalism, the Shepardist 'cult' was growing in influence and inspiration, and it seemed like nothing was going to stem the tide of this growing, galactic sensation.

With that said, the congregation today was undoubtably going to be packed, with thousands of people attending. The congregation wasn't exclusive to Shepardist members, and as a result, it was likely many non-members were going to turn up simply to see what all the fuss was about. If he wanted to get a front row seat to the entire thing, he would have to turn up fairly early. That, or get as close as possible and make his way closer somehow. Either way, he was interested to see how this woul turn out.

His taxi was diverted through multiple detours on his way there, which occasionally took him down disconnected streets and alleyways. The Reapers had rendered most of the skylane network inoperable, destroying much of it during their invasion of the planet. As such, the navigational labyrinth was a shambles, with Illium's Road Travel Board having to redirect traffic so many times that one could get lost in it all. Luckily for him, the taxis were automated, and as they were 'plugged' into city-wide GPS systems, the taxi could simply follow the updated skylanes until it worked its way to its primary destination. No thought or handling was required on his end.

As such, he ignored the happenings around him and focused back on his omni-tool. He quickly brought up the Codex page on the movement's founder and leader, wanting to know more about the man who had started the organization. From what he read of the man, he was hardly a person who inspired confidence, and it seemed very likely that his only claim to fame was that he knew and had met Shepard on numerous occasions, and that he was quite likely his biggest fan. Otherwise, he appeared to lack any of the basic, fundamental principles required by a leader...in fact, many of the independent planet-based chapters of the cult, such as Earth's, seemed to have more competent leadership than their founder. How this man had come to be in charge of the movement was a question for social discourse, but at the moment, he would have to suspend his disbelief.

Despite his incongruent and inept leadership abilities, it was clear to him and everybody involved that he was chosen for a reason. And while it definitely wasn't for his ability to command a room, he could certainly see him playing to a crowd. His effervescence, ebullience and spirit made for a compelling prolocutor, and he had a feeling this played a part in this man's rise to prominence. It wasn't that he had the skills to pull it off: he was simply at the right place, at the right time, in history, to make it happen.

He was a leader by chance, not by choice.

As he scrutinized a photo of the man in question, a snapshot taken of him while speaking at one of his congregations, he got the sneaking feeling that this man was the one he needed to speak to. Again, the vague obligation in his mind that practically commanded him to broaden his search for the truth was in full force, and for whatever reason, it told him finding this man was of utmost importance to his mysterious plan.

 _Perhaps...well, he does know Shepard, and has met him numerous times in the past...sure, it could be embellishment or posturing. But if he_ _**is** _ _telling the truth...he could have the answers I seek. Besides, anything is better at this point than blindly tottering around like an idiot trying to figure out what the hell is going on. I need to take the first step. And I've just got a gut feeling that this man can help me do that._

It took an extra half an hour ontop of what he expected, but he wasn't all that bothered by it. Arriving at the parking lot just on the northeast perimeter of the Showgrounds, the skycar touched down on the concrete-transparisteel roof, a visible distortion of air being expelled from beneath the vehicle as it was violently repatriated from their previous position. Mass Effect fields kept the vehicle in its levitating position, the scissor door on the left side popping up with a click, opening all the way. He quickly stepped out, quick to reach down and his grab his backpack.

He frowned as he grabbed it, feeling something warm and sticky suddenly dripping between his fingers. His first reaction was confusion: due to the low light of the taxi, he wasn't able to see what the substance was. Add on top of that, the fact that he didn't have any liquids in his bag that could leak other than water (which was nowhere near as viscous as what he felt right now) and he was baffled by what was causing this. Pulling his bag free of the car, he dropped it and raised his hand up directly into the sunlight of Tasale, which was currently beating heavily on his back with its raw heat.

He gasped, feeling his breath hitch abruptly as he saw sickingly thick, black and red liquid running down his fingers and staining his hand. Globs of syrupy cruor slipped down into his palm, the crimson substance so thick as to be totally devoid of transparency. The warmth it radiated was nigh nauseating, the smell wafting off of it reeked of decomposition and boiling putrification. To his horror, he felt the liquid begin to heat up, and he bit down a scream as the calefaction reached a white hot level of pain that it felt as if hand was melting. Bubbles boiled and popped as the red secretion sizzled. Eventually, he was unable to hold down his agony, tormenting darkness etching at the edges of his vision as he threatened to black out from the discomfort. He cried out, closing his eyes shut as he tried to ignore the substance.

The blood on his hand reached an unbearable temperature...and then stopped.

His shout ceasing mid note, he pried his eyes open to find his hand perfectly clean: not a speck of the blood that had been on it just moments before. Furthermore, his hand was clear of any blemishes or signs of damage: nothing but the single, white scar tissue that ran in a diagonal line between his ring and middle finger, down to his wrist. For a moment, he wondered if his scar had somehow been torn open, but the sheer mountain of evidence that there hadn't been any bleeding at all was momentous: there was no proof at all that anything he had seen had ever happened. One moment his hand was drenched in the life's essence of a person while his hand was grilled, and the next, it was perfectly fine, not a drop of blood to be found. He turned over his hand and meticulously scanned it with his eyes three times, but still found nothing. He clasped his hand uneasily, letting out an unsteady, withering breath.

_Sinful._

Another random word, this one's meaning even less clear than the last. It was obvious to him now the bloodied hand had been a hallucination: but what did it mean? Was it symbolic? A euphemism? Was his mind playing tricks on him, or trying to tell him something? None of it made a lick of sense. It was just one more dubious clue in a perpetual puzzle that never ended. Just one more question that required answers.

The headache was returning, he could feel the dull throb eminating from the front of his skull, feeling like an immense pressure trying to get out. Wincing, he quickly retrieved the relevant medication, popped a pill into his mouth and swallowed it down with water. It wasn't a cure, but at least he had satisfied his dose for the day.

 _Can't afford to get careless. I know what those headaches...the_ _**migraines** _ _...are like. I never want to feel like that again._

Clearing his throat, and making sure nobody saw him, he closed the door of the patiently waiting skycar (of course it did, it was a VI-operated machine) before quickly slinging his backpack over his shoulders and making his way to the bottom of the parking lot edifice and towards the Showgrounds. He had at least four minutes total until the congregation was scheduled to begin, and he could make it if he fast walked. And that he did, his strides matching his quantum urgency in equal equity. Behind him, the whine of the taxi's engine could be heard as it lifted off and ascended into the skylanes again.

The excited and animated shouting and guffawing of the crowd could be heard from a mile away, so it was little surprise the intermittent roar of the people gathered had reached as far as the parking lot his taxi had dropped him off. Still, his approach remained unfettered, and before long, his purposeful arrival was announced as he reached the gated entrance to the massive, two kilometer long courtyard and thumbed the haptic interface, the door shooting open.

The noise increased tenfold without the door to mute it, the booming cries of the gathered assemblage assaulting him the moment he was granted entrance. Undeterred, he stepped inside, and found a massive wall of flesh greeting him, people of numerous species and genders aligning the perimeter compound as they all pushed and shoved to get inside. There were four lines of people waiting to get in, all of them being thoroughly checked and searched before being allowed to go in. He quickly shoved his way into the line, stepping infront of two squabbling volus who were too busy arguing to pay him much mind. Once the turian infront of him was cleared, he stepped forward.

The security guard, a bored looking human clad in the white and black armor of an Elanus Risk Control Services employee and wearing a blue-tinted Kuwashii visor, quickly tapped his bench, lips expelling a loud raspberry sound that sounded a lot like a horse, "Bags, terminals, omni-tools, dump 'em here, then step through the-"

He had completed his assigned tasks before the guard had even finished. Bag down on the bench, followed by his omni-tool and the single datapad he had inside the backpack. He then stepped through the metal detector, waited for a second, and then walked through once the guard was satisified he was carrying nothing. Standing to the other side, he carefully waited for the guard to finish checking his items. After a minute or so, the guard turned back to him, eying him carefully, the packet of dihydroergotamine and his omni-tool held up in the air as if being put on exhibition.

"What are the drugs for?"

"Headaches. Says so on the packaging."

Looking thoroughly disinterested, the guard conceded and slid the pills over to him across the bench. Snatching them up, he placed them back in his bag, and awaited the return of his omni-tool, but found the guard was still eying him suspiciously.

"And this omni-tool?" he waved it in the air again, making a big spectacle out of it, "Scanner picked up what looked to be a plasma injector mod attached to the mainframe of the projector. If I'm reading that correctly, its a Model A2 plasma injector. Any particular reason you have an omni-blade on you?"

He sighed, licking his lips, "I'm ex-Alliance military. Omni-blades are standard issue. Issued to all marines and army personnel."

The guard raised his eyebrow, unconvinced, "You need a Class B weapons license to have one of these."

"We're not in Council space. You can't enforce their laws over here. So save me the bullshit, and give me my omni-tool back."

The guard hadn't expected that. Apparently, at a Shepardist convention, having somebody who actually had legal know-how was a rare occurence. He began to wonder how many other poor fools had been caught with programs they shouldn't have on their omni-tools and had been 'caught out' by these guards. If they had been in Citadel space, they might have been in the right, but here on Illium, in the Terminus systems, anything goes.

_I could just show him my license, but I hardly need to. This isn't Council space. This is Illium. I can do what I want._

"Whatever," the guard flippantly dismissed, tossing him his omni-tool. It seemed in that moment he had forgotten all about the incident, because he had already turned to return to his previous position, waiting to check the next person through. Shaking his head, he grabbed his bag and omni-tool, carefully placing the projector back on his wrist before turning and heading into the crowd.

He quickly found himself pushing and shoving his way through, the people present packed in tightly like a can of sardines: a nightmare for any claustrophobic. As he moved through the mass of people, he could make out asari, turians, volus, humans, salarians, hanar, elcor, krogan...even batarians. There was even the odd quarian, from what he could see, but not a huge amount of them. Almost every species aside from vorcha and drell were represented in the crowd, their joined cacophony of laughing, shouting and cheering overwhelming his ears as it caused them to ring with how loud it was. He was careful to avoid shoving any krogan or batarians, as he knew how tough they could be, and generally avoid turians altogether, as their talons could tear flesh. Slowly but gradually, he was making his way through them, trying to reach the front of the Showgrounds itself so that he could observe the congregation in a front row seat.

There was a crackling sound that echoed across the entire courtyard, an electronic warble that cut through the yelling like a hot knife through butter, the entire showgrounds falling silent almost immediately. He did not cease his movement though, only intensifying it once he realized what the crackling was: the sound of somebody preparing a PA system. This sentiment was confirmed when a series of large billboards making up the circumference of the showgrounds, raised at least 100 feet off the ground and attached to the sides of the towering skyscrapers around them, suddenly flashed online, showing an identical image on each screen. The face of the person represented was one few could, or would ever, forget, even for generations.

Commander Jonathan B. Shepard. He didn't know how the image was taken, as it seemed to have been shot in the middle of a battle in a city, as it depicted Shepard in full Terminus assault combat armor sans the helmet, geth pulse rifle wielded in one hand, while he turned behind him, arm pointing forwards as he barked orders to soldiers behind him, mouth opened wide and brow furrowed deep in a display of authority. The soldiers behind him seemed to be inspired by his orders in the image, as they willingly charged forward, ready to die at his side. The words at the bottom of the image said everything.

'Commander Shepard: Hero, Savior, Leader.'

Moments after the images appeared, a single male voice thundering across the open, concrete/metal plain as it was amplified by the sound system he was using to project himself, "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for attending!"

He pushed forward. And forward. And  _forward_. More and more, he inched closer and closer, the man's voice continuing to speak to the crowd as he offered platitudes, greetings and salutations. He knew the man on stage was the leader of the organization, and the person he aimed to speak to. He needed to reach him, and soon.

It didn't take him long before he finally reached the front, where the wall of people finally ended. Only then did he finally cease his approach, head craning to look up at the stage where the Shepardist leader stood, omni-tool aglow around his arm as it connected him to the PA. He propped his cap slightly higher on his scalp to give him a better view, eyes squinting through the bright assault of flaring light made by the sun's rays ricocheting off the glass spires around them, shining back down on the crowd below.

_That's him. That's definitely him._

He looked exactly as he did in his biographic photo. Blonde hair, cropped closely to the skull, with a beard kept contained to the chin, an even smaller moustache. He had cobalt eyes, with a large nose and neck. The man wasn't a particulary imposing figure, standing at a fairly reasonable 6 feet in height. However, he made up for his lack of stature in pure ardour, his mannerisms extremely bubbly and exaggerated as he paced back and forth, stirring up the crowd with loud exclamations.

Conrad Verner was exactly the man his Codex biography made him out to be. And given the man's history, he seemed to be the perfect man to lead the Shepardists on face value.

Standing beside him was a young woman around his age, with short black hair, blue eyes, smooth cheeks, a small nose and full lips. She was the exact opposite of Conrad, preferring to stand to the side and simply smile while he gave his dogmatic speech, hands clasped infront of her modestly, but constantly listening. She must have Jenna McLean, the co-founder of the Shepardist movement and, as the extranet would have it, his closest confidant. She too had claimed to have met Shepard, but whether or not she too, like Conrad, could possibly be misconstruing the facts was another matter. All the more reason for him to meet them in person.

The congregation continued for the next three hours. Conrad and Jenna would preach to the crowd about Shepard's many 'victories and successes' while the crowd would occasionally ask questions about their encounters with Shepard and his crew. He had to admit, to hear them say it, they were very compelling. It was no surprise that, by the end of the meeting, he could hear whispers beside him from a couple of humans and salarians about considering the possibility of joining the cult. The way they made it sound gave the man an almost ethereal quality, one that was worthy of not just praise, but nigh worship. He was more than their savior, it seemed. He was their guardian. Their protector. The man who had saved them and helped them where the Council hadn't.

As the congregation continued, and questions and answers were exchanged back and forth between the crowd and the two founders, the man began to wonder if perhaps the Shepardist movement not only had a point, but would be the key to finding the answers he needed. All the evidence seemed to suggest as such. And while he didn't exactly view himself as a cult follower, they were a means to an end.

_I'll still need to meet this Conrad Verner. See for myself what kind of man he is. Perhaps then I will see about joining this...movement. About becoming a Shepardist._

Finally, after another hour, the congregation ended, and the crowds began to disperse, moving to make their way back to the entrance to file out and return to their homes: the billboards above them switched off, and the PA crackled as it went offline, Conrad's arm returning to normal as his omni-tool deactivated, the cult leader turning and grabbing Jenna's hand as he moved to make his way off stage.

It wasn't hard to find the exit to the stage: after all, it was located just to the left of the stage itself, blocked off by a small exit door. He waited for them patiently at the bottom, hands clasped infront of him. Moments later, almost exactly as he predicted, the door slid open, and Conrad walked down, caught in the middle of talking exuberantly to the human woman beside him.

"-went so well, Jenna. Maybe next time, we can-" he cut himself off the moment his eyes landed on the silent man standing infront of him, Jenna stopping too and her smile diminishing slightly upon noticing the person not only blocking their way, but one who they did not recognize. Conrad's smile, however, remained plastered on his face, his surprise giving way to excitement as he correctly perceived the man infront of him to be a supporter.

"Can I help you?" he said excitedly, holding out a hand for the man to shake. He eyed it for a moment, having a brief flash to a memory of boiling blood soaking his hand. He blinked the memory away, which evaporated in a flash, and reciprocated the gesture, shaking it firmly.

"Yes," he stated simply, foregoing the introduction of a name, as he usually did now. Names belonged to people who knew themselves. As someone who didn't know himself, a name would be useless, "I found your...speech, to be quite enlightening. You have a way with words, Mr. Verner. But I had a few questions."

All too eager to please, Conrad's smile only got wider, "Guessing you don't like to have a crowd when asking questions?"

He shook his head, "No, not quite the case here. I just felt these questions deserved a more hands-on, face-to-face acknowledgement. Talking across a stage is too impersonal."  _That and the questions I may need to ask require a direct, private audience._

Conrad cocked his head at that, biting his lower lip temporarily before waving for him to be followed. Jenna stepped out of the way and then followed Conrad as he led him through to the back of the stage, walking through a series of doors and corridors before reaching the back, where a skycar was parked: more than likely the one belonging to Conrad. The door closed behind them, and Conrad turned towards him, clapping his hands together eagerly.

"Well, fire away!" he shot back keenly. He was taken aback by the action for a moment, surprised by Conrad's sudden change in behaviour. He had gone from someone eccentric, but compendious, to someone who was overly cordial and callow. His demeanour had completely changed, and the somewhat distant respect he had for Conrad deteriorated dramatically at the sight of it. Still, he had come here with the intent of asking questions and finding out more about his purpose, so he must persist through whatever disinclination he might have towards the topic, and complete his objective.

_Think of this as a mission. Complete it, regardless of personal feelings._

Thinking of what to ask first, he decided his first question would need to be the most direct and belligerent. Establish Conrad's intent, and whether he truly was just a con artist, or was telling the truth, "How do you know Shepard so well? The experiences you spoke of on the stage...they seem to be the product of mere chance. Forgive me if I'm a little skeptical."

Blinking, apparently not used to having his story questioned in such a blunt manner, Conrad stuttered before a moment before composing himself, grinning from ear to ear, "Well, Shepard and I have run into each other in the past. The first time I met him was before he became a Spectre, all the way back in 2183, during the Eden Prime War. I've still got his photograph and signature, if you want proof. He even talked me down from...well, idiotically trying to sign up to become a Spectre." He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, eying Jenna with a weakened, sheepish smirk. Jenna just giggled, while he patiently waited for Conrad to continue.

Seeing his expression, Conrad continued, "We didn't meet again until two years later after that. I tried to become like him, going around the galaxy and writing wrongs. I even got an N7 armor replica and pistol: it cost me only 800 credits! Oh, and I helped him take down a terrorist cell right here on this very planet! Although I'm beginning to wonder if he lied to me about that just to be polite..." he sighed wistfully, shrugging, "Didn't see him again after that until the war with the Reapers, just after Cerberus' attack. I helped him undercover a plot to sabotage medical dispensers, which I may have accidentally helped by believing he was still with Cerberus, and would have sacrificed my life for him too if it hadn't been for Jenna," he motioned to the young woman with a warm smile that broadcasted his feelings about her to anyone who was paying attention, "That's how we met."

Jenna nodded with affirmation, "He's telling the truth, Mister...?"

 _Shit. Should have known somebody would ask for a name at some point. I've got to get around to that. I may not know myself, but the people around me are going to want to know me, and they'll need a name. But for now..._ "My name is irrelevant," he stated simply and without argument. Before Jenna could refute his statement, he turned back to Conrad, "I would like to see this proof you have. I don't want to suggest you're a liar, Mr. Verner, but I'm not as...gullible, as some of your other followers might be. I need definitive evidence before I can commit to this."

_Commit? I guess I really must be interested. It is really the only way to get to the bottom of this, not to mention that gut feeling is telling me this is the right thing to do..._

Conrad looked more than a little offended at that, pouting ever so slightly as he shrugged and opened his omni-tool. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  _This man is so excessively puerile. And if his accounts are true, he has a knack for imbecility as well. He actually joined Cerberus simply because Shepard did at one point. He's the obsequious moron who will do anything to gain the favour of the man he fawns over. Its ridiculous._

_But, the aim isn't to spit on this man's pride. I need to gain his favour, find out what he knows. And see if I can join this organization._

Yes, he was sure of it now. The Shepardists...that's where his goal lay. Why? He needed to find that out still, but he did feel like he was getting closer. It was like a mental checklist was being methodically ticked off, and with every tick came victory's grasp. Whatever the case, he felt obligated to continue his search.

A minute or so passed as Conrad showed him the photos and signature he acquired, and with Jenna's account of the Cerberus attack, and Conrad's own admission that perhaps the terrorist cell bust in Nos Astra wasn't all it was cracked up to be, he was satisified he was telling the truth. Besides, Conrad didn't seem the kind of man to lie. Vacuous and servile, yes. Persistently stupid, definitely. But a liar? No...he wasn't the type.

With everything in order, and Conrad turning off his omni-tool, he decided the time had come to get straight to the specifics. Without any hesistance, he asked the question that was lingering on his mind, clawing for release, "So...tell me about this Shepardist cult."

Conrad seemed annoyed by that, waving a dismissive hand, "Its  _not_ a cult!" he pouted, his wording coming off like that of a sulking child, before he composed himself, hands straightening out his shirt as he cleared his throat, "Sorry, I  _meant_ that we are a  _movement_ dedicated to spreading awareness of the galaxy's savior. Commander Shepard has done so much for us all, and I just know he'd appreciate everything we're doing for him out here. We're fighting the good fight. He once told me that not everybody gets to be a soldier, and that others fight their own, less violent battles at home. Now I  _finally_ get what he meant! That's why I founded this group, with Jenna's support of course...to spread the word. To make sure Shepard, and everything he and the  _Normandy_ squad have done, will never be forgotten! Its our duty to ensure history remembers what Shepard did!"

Jenna nodded, her smile indicating a level of pride in her partner's words as she grabbed his hand, squeezing it, "Conrad's always been Shepard's biggest fan, and what he did for Shepard, almost sacrificing his life for him...that was very brave of him. What we do here is for a good cause...we're not violent. We're not here to kill you or spread our message through riots and protests. We just want everyone to know that the man who saved us isn't going anywhere, and that if we want history to remember him, we have to make our voices heard."

He nodded, giving no indication of his emotions beneath the expressionless facade he had sprung up in place on his face.  _So its...hero worship. I don't care what he says. The Shepardists are a cult. No concern of mine though...especially if I want to join them._

A smile formed on his lips, perhaps involuntarily, as his thoughts drifted to what his mind wanted him to do. The path was clear now: this was where he was meant to be. His mission was to find Shepard, and he had done that. His next mission was to find Conrad and hopefully learn more about his past, but instead, he found a new aspiration forming in the form of the Shepardists. Despite his dislike of Conrad, he felt that joining his cult was a necessity. Not just a necessity perhaps, but a requirement. His purpose was discernible now, especially now that he had clarity.

_My task isn't to learn more about myself...but to help myself learn more about Shepard. This is where I belong._

He turned to Conrad, bobbing his head slightly, "I apologize for my abrasiveness, but I just wanted to be sure you were...legitimate. You see...I wish to join your movement. I want to be a Shepardist."

Conrad seemed surprised by that, constantly finding himself outmaneveured by this man he had never met, "Oh?" his surprise soon gave way to excitement, his smile returning in full force as he clapped his hands together in a gesture that he seemed overly familiar with. Moving forward, he grasped the man's shoulder tightly, "That's great! What made you reach this decision? What has Shepard done that has brightened your life?"

_'Changed my life'? Definitely a cult. That, or Conrad has a poor vocabulary._

He shrugged, a non-committal gesture he has used to substitute for his actualized intent, "Much, and more. I fought during the final Battle on Earth," he lied. Although, considering he couldn't remember much, he wasn't sure to what extent he actually  _was_  lying, "I saw his actions first hand. Saw what he did for fallen soldiers, how he worked with his squad, how he charged the Beam and continued the fight when nobody else could or would. The Commander is an example to us all. He is truly..." he fumbled for a word to describe the man, but felt only one pop into his head, professedly out of nowhere, "...a modern-day crusader, Mr. Verner. He has brought justice to a galaxy that is severely lacking in it."

_Crusader. Yes...that word fits nicely. A perfect description of what Shepard represents. Of what he must be._

_What he_ _**must** _ _be._

If a clicking sound could be used to represent the epiphany he had just reached, it would have been loud enough for even Conrad to hear it.

_Of course...that has been my purpose all along! That is why I am here!_

_Truth...I must spread the truth! Of the galaxy's_ _**crusader** _ _!_

He grinned broadly and openly now, feeling an immense weight lifted off his shoulders. It was almost like an enormous burden had been relieved from him, and that the reward for carrying it was knowledge. Knowledge of what he had to do, what he must become. No...rather, what he must help somebody else to become.

_Shepard is a man of greatness...and it is my task to help the galaxy realize it._

Conrad, likely feeling the happiness radiating off of the man next to him, but not aware of the reasons why, simply clapped him on the shoulder, and released him, "Well, I must say..." he trailed off, waiting for the man to give fill in the gap with his own name. After a minute had passed without such an event occurring, Conrad gave up, and continued, "...well, whoever you are, you certainly seem eager enough! The Shepardist movement welcomes all who wish to join our ranks! Jenna will send you the coordinates of our headquarters," he motioned to Jenna, who was already in the process of typing into her omni-tool, "Come meet us at 1400 hours this afternoon. We will be holding a meeting with the rest of the movement here on Illium to socialize. I'm sure they'd love to hear your story!"

His omni-tool beeped as Jenna finished sending him the coordinates for the Shepardist HQ. He gave her a single thankful nod, before bowing to them.

"I look forward to it," was all he said before pivoting on the spot and leaving the way he came, omni-tool deactivating as he turned it off. After the door closed behind him, he let the faux-smile drop from his face, but his face remained relaxed and without tension, a sneak peek at the comfort he felt with his new mission.

He wasn't just some lost puppy trying to find himself anymore. He had a purpose. A real one. Ever since he had left that SAAF rehab facility, Shepard had been the only thing on his mind. He hadn't known until now why...and after speaking with Conrad, the reason was obvious. His quest not to know himself...but to know Shepard, better understand him, and then take that knowledge and spread it to the galaxy. He would take everything Shepard was, and immortalize it for generations to come. Every child would praise the name 'Shepard'.

He stopped at the last door leading back out onto the Showgrounds, clenching his fists. Releasing the tension from them, he hit the haptic interface, and stepped back out into the rays of Illium's sun.

And if he needed to take control of the Shepardists to do so...then so be it.

There was much work to be done. And he finally felt strong enough to tackle it.

* * *

 _Rannoch - December 18, 2187_ _\- An hour later_.

The last two days had been incredibly fun.

Ever since Garrus and Kasumi arrived two days ago, they had been completely occupied. Garrus and Shepard would talk, banter, drink and practice shooting with their rifles, while Tali and Kasumi would talk, talk tech, check out the house and explore the nearby beach. At night time, the four of them would gather for dinner and talk some more. Garrus and Kasumi had elected to sleep in the lounge room overnight, choosing to stay an extra day longer than they had expected before returning to their rented living space back in El'Tivv. Their presence had added an extra liveliness to the house that hadn't been presented before, and both Shepard and Tali were grateful for it.

They had finished saying their temporary goodbyes this morning, with Garrus and Kasumi having left back for the capital city just half an hour ago. With nothing else to do, and Tali having enjoyed visiting what amounted to their own personal beach with Kasumi, the quarian and suggested taking a talk. Shepard had approached the idea gladly, and within ten minutes, they were down on the beach, hand in hand, with Urz plodding alongside them, Shepard keeping the varren occupied with a game of fetch with a stick Shepard had found on the ground. It kept Urz distracted mostly, allowing Shepard and Tali to keep to themselves.

The two of them held each other's hands as they walked through the surf, white foamy waves crashing onto the sandy shore, leaving behind a trail of wet, sloshy remains that their feet, both Shepard's bare and Tali's booted, sunk into as they walked past. Tali giggled slightly at the sensation of the cold water running along her feet, the sensation felt even through her suit. He smiled at her reactions, finding them cute and adorable as always, while also feeling happy for her. There was a hint of sadness at the fact she couldn't feel it on her bare skin like he could, and there was even some guilt at that fact. The quarian had reassured him it didn't bother her however, and she continued on happily, none the wiser. She made sure to match her speed to his, mindful of the limp he had. He gave her a nod of appreciation, kissing the side of her hood, before picking up the stick Urz had dropped at his feet and tossing it as far as he could, Urz bolting to retrieve it from where it had landed at least 200 meters across the beach, the object splashing as it impacted the water some ways away.

Few words were exchanged between them, largely because no words were needed. They simply enjoyed each other's presence, their thoughts remaining their own as they simply enjoyed the salty, cold breeze of the ocean slamming into them, water cascading down around their feet, allowing them to experience Rannoch's oceanic splendor. Words would simply spoil the quiet moment between them, and neither of them wanted to do that...at least not yet.

Internally, Shepard was deep in thought, despite his calm, outward expression. The conversation he had with Garrus about settling down had certainly made him reevaluate his life as a whole, especially his relationship with Tali. Garrus had been adamant about never settling down, or at the very least, not doing it for a while. Garrus and Kasumi were kindred spirits in that they were always on the move, always active. Retirement simply wasn't on the portfolio for them. But Shepard and Tali were different...they felt ready. At least, that's the feeling he got from talking with her. They were ready to settle down, to finally put aside their trades of war and to make a proper foundation here on Rannoch.

He spared her a brief glance, and couldn't help but smile. Everything about her was perfect: she made him happy. He felt peace whenever he was around her, and when she wasn't, he felt a little bit less because of it. Like he wasn't complete without her. He had never felt like this with anyone else in his life, not even with past girlfriends. Never had he felt like he could live with them for the rest of his life. This kind of love was foreign to him, but that was okay. Because he knew Tali, being the most selfless and loyal woman he had met, would never turn him away. Would never spurn him. She loved him, that much was obvious. Which was why he wasn't nervous about taking the next step.

His hand felt around his right pocket absentmindedly, feeling around at the presence within it. A small box, but one with paramount importance and which represented another step in his life he was about to take. He felt himself inhaling a little more deeply at the thought of it, but at the same time, he couldn't help but smile. Smile, because he was looking forward to it. He was certain that he loved his quarian engineer with all his heart, that he wanted her to be apart of his life from this day forward and forever, and that nothing would deter him from this goal. Not nervousness, not uncertainty, and certainly not the opinions of others. Garrus' words to him had only reinforced his feeling. Now...the time was ripe.

The moment had come, and he felt he was ready. But was she?

That was the question. Was she ready to take that leap right alongside him? Hold his hand and take a leap of faith? Step forward into tomorrow gladly, with him at her side?

A few more minutes passed in silence, the two continuing to walk well over a kilometer down the beach. Urz returned one more time and Shepard tossed the stick, but after two minutes, the varren hadn't returned, and when Shepard checked, he could see him bounding around in the surf, barking enthusiastically as he washed himself. Not surprising, given the fishdog was used to the unforgiving wasteland that was Tuchanka's Hagalok city ruins, and wasn't used to having an ocean so close by. Hell, he had probably never seen one until now.

Finally, Tali stopped, and walked forwards into the water, head tilted downwards as she lifted one foot infront of the other ploddingly, taking her time to enjoy each footstep into the watery abode. She sighed happily, and he simply followed along, looking up to soak in the sight of Rannoch's sun rising in the distance, light sparkling on the water, creating a beautiful sight. He let go of her hand, and watched as Tali continued until she was knee deep in the water, looking forwards. He took a deep breath, inhaling the salty brine, his attention focused entirely on her.

It was then that she seemed to ponder something, before gradually raising her arms, holding them out as if willingly herself to fly, before simply allowing the light winds to pass under her arms and over them, amplifying the effect she held under the suit. She hissed as the cold kiss of the air just barely made it through the fabric, chilling her skin underneath...at least, that's how he envisioned she felt. He smiled at the sight, especially as he watched Tikkun's rays reflecting off her mask, illuminating her in an almost angelic glow. If he looked close enough, he could almost see her face being outlined, penetrating the smoky exterior of her helmet. His smile widened.

 _She is so beautiful..._ He touched his pocket again, as if to constantly check the box was still there. As he inhaled again, he realized...perhaps this was it. The perfect moment to make it happen. He had revised for the moment this would inevitably occur...the moment where he would ask her to become a permanent part of his life. He had tried to evaluate every intricate detail, right down to what he was going to say. He had thought of locations to do it, fathoming ridiculously cliche and corny situations where he would make his move and utter the famous two words that somehow encapsulated one of the most important decisions in a person's existence. But despite all the best laid plans of man...nothing could prepare him for the moment where he decided it would happen.

All his plans fell apart in that moment. And he was happy they did: a moment such as this shouldn't feel scripted. It should come from the heart. And as banal as  _that_ sounded, it also sounded just right. Like a universal truth. An aphorism.

So as Tali lowered her arms, chest breathing in and out as she simply absorbed the view before her, unaware of what was going on just behind her, Shepard reached into his pocket, and retrieved the box in question. He had done his research on quarian bonding ceremonies, and knew that while they had noticeable differences, the overall essence of marriage was preserved by both humans and quarians. However, he wanted to do this right, needed to make sure he did it perfectly or else ruin the moment. All he could do was hope...that he could improvize.

_Who am I kidding...my entire life is an improvization._

Ignoring the pull of the ocean tide as it smashed against his legs, he leaned down into a crouch, one knee braced against the wet sand beneath the water line. Box hidden behind his back, he cleared his throat, loudly enough to catch Tali's attention. The quarian turned, cocking her head with perplexity as she looked at her crouching partner, wondering what he was up to. Now having her full attention, he almost hesitated, but pushed on, convinced of what he needed to do. He thought hard, trying to remember what he had read. Luckily for him...he had a good memory.

"Tali, you've stuck by me through trying times, and I've always been there to return the favor. Whether it be to have a shoulder to cry on, a comforting voice to listen to, or having each other's backs in combat. No matter the situation, no matter what or how we felt, we pushed those feelings aside to help each other. Even when duty got in the way, we looked out for each other," he began, licking his lips, wincing lightly as he tasted saline from the swell around them. He could see Tali's head coming back to an upright position, one hand raising to hold itself just over her chest, the significance of what he was saying dawning on her, "Tali, you are the most important thing in my life. You've kept me strong where I was weak, brightened my mood where it was soured, and been there for me when I was lonely. When you were put on trial for treason, I used all my mental faculties to clear you of the charges. And when I was in hospital, you stayed at my side and helped nurse me back to health. I wouldn't be standing here if it wasn't for you. Tali'Zorah, I love you. You're all I need going forward, and I hope that we can spend the rest of our lives together. With that being said...Tali, will you walk through life with me as one in soul, body and spirit? Will you join with me?" He then presented the box, opening it to reveal the small wristband inside: the quarian equivalent of an engagement ring.

If Tali hadn't known what he was asking before, she did now, the quarian freezing up as she simply looked down at him with stupefaction, rendered speechless. He simply waited, a small part of him dreading the moment she would reject him and run back to their home, leaving him to reel in a morose state as he realized the folly of trying to rush-

Somehow, she ended up on her knees in front of him, water now up to her chest, hands grasping his shoulders tightly as she leaned forward, mask resting against his temple. Her eyes met his, and he felt himself once again enraptured by the silvery orbs beneath. Her voice a low purr, her words were almost lost to the discord of nature they rested in presence of, "Yes John, I will join with you. I'm surprised you didn't ask sooner, you  _bosh'tet_."

Then she hugged him, tightly, and he felt himself returning the gesture in kind, happy beyond words that she had destroyed his worst fears with her acceptance. He couldn't believe it: he had finally done it. He had asked Tali to marry him, and she had said yes. He felt he could whoop with joy, but instead, he found himself silently embracing her instead, conveying all the emotion he needed to with one hug. Tali understood it, squeezing him with equal need.

Suddenly, she began to nudge her mask into the crook of his neck, and before he knew it, he found he was doing the same, finding himself holding her more tightly, almost willing the suit to disappear so he could feel her warmth. Tali must have felt the same, because her gloved fingers were practically digging into his back, willing his shirt, now soaked with water, to disappear. After a few moments of grasping at each other desperately, his fiance pulled back, holding him at arm's length, "John..."

He nodded, his mouth going dry as he understood the sudden  _need_ festering between them. He reached up a hand, placing it over her vocalizer, signalling her not to say another word, "Tali...you don't need to say it. I feel it too."

"The house..." she said breathlessly, as if having performed a strenuous activity, "...we need to...get to the house...the decon unit..."

He quickly stood up, pulling her up with him, "Yes, we should...well, we should probably...uh...get back to the house...before we...well, before we do something...we regret." There was no hiding it now. No doubt Tali could see the look in his eyes.

She got his message loud and clear. Grabbing his hand, all hesitance evaporated from her mind, the box in Shepard's hand returning to his pocket as she grabbed his hand, and practically spun back in the direction she came, taking off at a brisk pace, "John...we need to get home.  _Right now._ "

"Couldn't agree more."

His limp was almost forgotten as the two practically speed walked back home. Urz must have noticed, because it wasn't long before he, still within the water, began to follow them home, curious to know why their walk had been cut so short. Unfortunately, their poor, non-sentient companion wouldn't be getting an answer any time soon.

Shepard couldn't remember what happened after that. All his focus had been on getting back home: luckily for them, having their house right next to the beach, resting on the cliff, expedited the process. Which was lucky for them, because in the time it took to cross the cliff and reach their front door, they could barely keep their hands to each other. Hands rushed to explore each and every bodily crevice immediately available to touch. His five fingered hands explored underneath her hood, drifting down to grasp the supple flesh of her buttocks, causing her to gasp. Meanwhile, her own hands explored his own body, reaching under his shirt to explore his pectorals and upper back. He made sure to press his lips against every square inch of her suited neck, the quarian moaning and growling in equal portions as she both enjoyed the ministruations, and fitfully tried to hold back from the compulsion of ripping her external prison off so she could enjoy more. Soon, her frustration transferred to him, their breathing becoming frantic and desperate as their patience grew thinner and thinner.

Sparing each other only enough time to open the door, close it (leaving the poor Urz to wonder aimlessly outside) and run the decontamination sequence, the two almost tripped in their haste to reach the bedroom. Their clumsy actions were enough to draw a few laughs from them, but not before they returned to their ceaseless foreplay, Shepard kissing her neck while she felt every iota of skin she could feasibly touch on his torso. Luckily for them, they would not have to wait long before they practically crashed through their front door, Tali aimlessly lashing out with a powerful leg to kick the door shut. Alone, in their bedroom, and with the decon cycle almost complete, they wasted no further time.

Time became a frivolous entity. Growls of frustration escalated as Tali quickly grabbed the bottom of Shepard's shirt, and began to tug upwards, while his own hands gravitated from her hips to the many buckles adoring her waist, fumbling at the latches to tear them free of her form, beginning the process of liberating her from her quarantine. He stopped only long enough to raise his arms, allowing her to pull his shirt off, where the quarian unceremoniously tossed it away, not even bothering to look to where it had landed before she returned to him. His hands continued to unlatch her numerous suit buckles, the sounds of them tumbling to the floor as they continued their constant backwards approach towards the bed. Tali released the seals on her gloves, tearing them free and dropping them all in the same instant it took for her light grey skin to be exposed to open air. Sighing with relief, she immediately grasped onto his back, savoring the feel of his skin. He shivered from the sensation, but kissed her throat in response, coaxing a moan from her.

Hissing, she reached up and almost tore her mask from the helmet, only calming down enough to remove it carefully when she temporarily recomposed herself. Hearing the hiss of the seals releasing and depressurizing, she dropped her mask to the floor, directing him to carefully step over it, before she lunged forward and locked her lips with his. He returned the kiss with equal fervor, tongues dancing in each other's mouths as they enjoyed the sensation of feeling the other's mouth on theirs. They closed their eyes and embraced the moment, her hands cradling his head, nose brushing against his in their fit of lust. Their kiss grew in intensity, heads twisting and turning to get better angles as they remained interlocked, totally oblivious to the world around them, especially as they just kept moving backwards.

The back of Tali's legs hit the bed, and she stumbled, back landing softly on the mattress as he came to land ontop of her, pinning her against the sheets. They didn't let that interrupt their bliss however, their passionate kissing gradually down grading to slow and sensual lip sucking, the two of them inhaling each other's scent as they allowed it to comfort them and dampen their lust-filled libido somewhat. Shepard's hands became less frantic, and Tali's hands ceased their endless assault on his torso, simply stroking his hair as their kiss began to deescalate. After what felt like an hour just endlessly making out, they finally parted lips, eyes parting and nostrils taking deep breaths as they heaved from their exertions.

After a moment, they laughed, foreheads lying against one another, taking deep breaths. Before Tali could so much as say a word though, Shepard's hands drifted down her body and continued the laborious task of freeing his lover from her suit. She returned to kissing him, moving from his lips to his neck and face, nibbling on his ear before running her tongue along the underside of his jaw. He shivered, left constantly surprised at the feelings this amazing woman could stir within him.

Her mouth continued to explore him while she removed the suit around her forearm, while Shepard continued to work on the upper portion of her suit. Within moments, he had released the final seal on her back, listening to the slight hiss of air as her suit suddenly went from snug to baggy, the tension the seal had placed on it having been loosened sufficiently. Having removed the suit on her arms, she quickly pulled down her hood, and released the clamp holding her hair in a ponytail, allowing her black hair to run down her shoulders. He inhaled deeply, nose running through her hair as he nuzzled her scalp. The quarian purred with approval, before she pulled back and removed the last strap holding her upper suit together. With it gone, tossed to the aside, she removed her purple veil and dropped it. With Shepard's help, the upper suit was quickly stripped and removed, leaving much of her upper body exposed.

Grinning from ear to ear, they closed distance as they interlocked their lips once again, her petite breasts squashing against his chest as he pressed her body close to him, the two exchanging warmth, arms wrapped around each other as if their survival depended on it. They breathed in through their noses, unable to breathe through their mouths as their lips battled it out to find a victor, only breaking apart to move further up the bed, Tali's bare head landing on one of the pillows, hair splayed out in a wide circumference before he descended upon her again. This time, he licked his way down her jaw and throat, the quarian moaning in response as he made his way down to her clavicle. From there, his licks turned into kisses, hands sliding their way down her naked skin while her hands held onto his head. Her breath became more hitched as he reached her breasts, his hands squeezing and applying pressure to them, the quarian's legs shuddering instinctively to the stimulation. He grinned as he placed one nipple into his mouth, before doing the same to the other.

"John..." she whispered, the sound of his name leaving her lips a song to his ears. He spent a few minutes switching between breasts, before he kissed his way down her cleavage to her smooth, well toned abdomen. He could feel and see her ribs from where they were imprinted against the skin, likely a result of her athletic frame. Finally, he reached the lower portion of her suit, which he then proceeded to unbuckle. Unable to reach him now, Tali's hands grabbed the sheets tightly, anticipating what was to come. He grinned as the last of her suit came off, the quarian kicking her boots off in a hurried fashion, eager to continue. Her deceptively strong, reverse-curved legs, ending in her cute, dainty three toed feet, spread open as Tali anticipated his next move. Smirking like a baffoon, in one smooth motion, he wrapped his arms around her legs and pulled her back towards the edge of the bed, where he sat crouched, causing the engineer to yelp in surprise.

"John, what are you-" Tali didn't get to finish her sentence as she threw her head back into the bed, letting out a mixture of a high pitched moan and a shriek. She looked down to find Shepard's head buried between her legs, tongue darting out to run around the rim of her sex, which was quickly beginning to run wet with her arousal. She grunted long and loud, barely able to contain her shrieks and mewling as he continued to pleasure her. Moments later, just as he expected, her strong legs wrapped firmly around his head, giving him no avenue of escape as she pulled him in. He was all too eager to entertain her, his arms keeping her own legs in place as he continued to bob up and down, maintaining a steady rhythm. Her legs were tightening so much it felt like a vise had sealed around his skull. He closed his eyes and focused on running his tongue in and around her rim, before pushing it inside and exploring her womanhood.

The effect was like a spark on a live wire. Her body tensed and almost convulsed on the bed, fingers scraping desperately for purchase on the sheets, as if fearing she would slide off. She cried out, her voice muttering random nonsense phrases and pleading whimpers.

"Ooooohhhh...John! Keelah, right...ohhhhhh... _de'tex al de men to'rah, neh'sah..._ mhhhmmmmmmm!"

He found himself involuntarily swallowing some of her essence during the course of the oral sex, the taste bitter and without flavor. He knew he would ultimately regret the action tomorrow, but he had purchased the appropriate medication, as had Tali, for just such an occasion. Dransitomol, colloquially referred to as 'levo/dextro love pills' in most romanticist circles, was the answer to the levo-dextro cross-species love problem. Enjoy yourself, then pop one of those pills into your mouth post-coital. The pill would dissolve in your stomach, specifically attack the foreign particulates and bacteria that weren't designed to be digested, and convert them into matter the body could properly digest. The unfortunate side effect was...unpleasant, to say the least, but well worth it for making love to his quarian partner without having to worry about their differences in chirality.

As such, he had no problem consuming her juices, not allowing it to deter him from his assigned goal. And within minutes, he was there: Tali tensed up one final time as his tongue finally lapped at her g-spot, located on the upper wall of her womanhood, causing a white hot explosion in Tali's mind, and in her sex. The quarian cried out in ecstasy, finally releasing a powerful orgasm that left Shepard dripping from his chin with her arousal. Chuckling a little bit, he wiped his mouth with his nearby shirt, before swallowing the rest. Still crouched, he grinned from ear to ear at the panting, exhausted looking quarian as she simply lay there, chest heaving up and down heavily.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"You  _bosh'tet_...that's not fair..."

"You taste good, by the way."

"You've said that before."

"And I'm still telling the truth." From his position, he reached up and grabbed the quarian's slack feet, proceeding to apply gentle pressure to the soles with his lips, tongue running up and down her toes. They twitched at the sensations, and he found himself stifling a laugh at how adorable her reactions were, Tali rubbing her stomach to stifle the 'butterflies' she felt there at the feeling of his warm lips pressing her sensitive soles.

"John...?" she spoke, raising her voice. She was asking a question this time.

Pulling away for a moment, he turned to look at her, "Yes, beautiful?"

"Sta...stand...stand up," she practically ordered, finally sitting herself up, using her arms to brace herself against the bed. He stood up as she spun her head comically, trying to flick her hair out of her face, but only causing a stray lock to hang tauntingly before her eyes. Scowling at the offending piece of hair for a moment, it quickly dissolved into a sultry smile, before the quarian scooted across the bed to lie on her knees infront of him. Before he could do anything, she had grasped his belt buckle, quickly undoing the clasp and throwing it away, tugging his pants down using the band, followed by his boxers. Before he knew it, his manhood was standing at full attention, painfully erect at the sight of the gorgeous woman before him. He was therefore left aghast as Tali got to work returning the favour, gripping him with one hand as she began to pump him eagerly, masturbating him as he stood there, perplexed. Perplexity gave way to pleasure however, and his face soon twisted into that of enjoyment, groaning as he reached out and grabbed the back of her head gently, encouraging her.

Smiling devillishly, a representation of Tali's transition from that nervous, insecure and hesitant young quarian engineer to an admiral who was confident and sanguine. He loved her all the more for it, and didn't object when the quarian ceased her pumping and went down on him, mouth wrapped around his manhood as she proceeded to bob her head up and down. He grunted, finding himself unable to discern the time as it lost all meaning, his focus entirely on his alien lover as she pleasured him, his hand running down her arched back to provide as much stimulus to their lovemaking as possible. She did the same, hands holding onto his thighs and moving up and down comfortingly while she sped up.

Even in the midst of such lust and passion, the two of them could find time to express their love for each other. He stroked her back like an artist paid careful attention to a painting, admiring the perfections and imperfections of her body, all the while appreciating her. After a few more minutes of feeling his quarian's warm mouth around him, he felt his vision spike and his manhood twitch, before he finally released.

Giving him a few more seconds, Tali then pulled away, wiping her mouth and swallowing. Sitting up, she pulled him forward and locked her lips with his once again. While it was never a nice thing having to taste yourself on your lover's lips, the two of them didn't care, moving from each other's lips to their face, planting each other in a myriad and complex network of kisses and love bites, nippling on nearly every available piece of flesh they could find as they embraced. Before they knew it, they were once again falling back to the bed, kissing as they went, scooting further up to land Tali's head on the pillows once more, their mouths never leaving each other's skin.

She cradled his head as he suckled her left breast, the quarian humming in delight, "John...that feels sooooo good...keelah, its been so long..."

 _Too damn long._ "It has," he stated inbetween kisses. He grinned around one nipple, pulling away momentarily to finish statement, "But that just makes these all the more special."

She smiled back, before pulling him to head level and kissing him once again, doing so for around a minute before pulling back, leaning her forehead against his, her eyes closed, voice a breathy whisper, "I love you,  _neh'sah_."

He smiled, the lust-filled sultriness gone and replaced with pure love, "I love you too,  _neh'sah_."

She smiled weakly, nearing fatigue, "John...I want you inside me. Please."

He didn't keep her waiting any longer, spreading her legs and positioning himself at her entrance. The quarian wrapped her legs around his waist in preparation, and wasn't disappointed when she felt the familiar feeling of him sliding into her, the quarian letting out a loud, prolonged gasp, Shepard puffing along with her. In that single moment, the two of them became connected, literally joined at the hip as their love became whole. In moments such as this, where they made love, they were truly completed.

The two spent the next few moments getting reacquainted with each other, Tali with having Shepard inside her and Shepard with being inside Tali. The two squirmed for a moment, getting comfortable, Tali's hands grasping his shoulders while he braced his hands to the sides of her head. They waited for each other, unwilling to proceed without the other's approval. Even at the height of their intercourse, they never, for one second, stopped being concerned for the other. It was part of why they were drawn to each other.

Perfect.

In that moment, their eyes met, and that single, impassioned look was all that was needed. Shepard pulled out, and thrusted back in, doing so slowly and gently. Tali closed her eyes and hummed, and he pulled out and back in, this time a little faster. Their pace increased in tempo until they were at a comfortable speed, Shepard thrusting in and out of her while they both gasped and grunted with each penetration. During the throes of their lovemaking, the two interrupted their cries of abject passion with more pecks and kisses, moaning into each other's mouths as Shepard's hands moved to Tali's hips, steadying himself as he proceeded to piston into her.

"Oh John...yes! Keelah, hmmmmmm...that feels so  _good_! Yes, like that!  _Ne'xap te'tenle de'tex!_ Keep doing that...please, don't stop!"

"No...intention...of doing...so...my love..." he exclaimed, managing to finish his sentence before being unable to keep up the effort of talking, his efforts focused solely on pleasing her. The feel of her womanhood squeezing around him was maddening, but also insanely pleasurable, his shaft hitting every single spot that would send electrifying euphoria pulsing through her body, assaulting every one of her senses. He winced slightly as her hands moved to his back, fingernails digging into his skin. As their sex continued, her walls clamped down on him, and he knew she must be getting close. He slowed down slightly, wanting to draw out their coitus as long as possible for both of them, as they hadn't done this for a while, and wished to savour it. As such, the rocking of the bed lessened slightly and Tali, while looking ever so slightly disappointed, did not discourage his actions, and would likely agree with him if every single nerve in her body wasn't screaming for the release of her pent up endorphins and oxytocin.

He managed to drag out their communion for at least another half an hour, the two groping at each other, desperate for any form of intimacy they were allowed. When Shepard got too tired to continue in his current position, Tali rolled him over onto his back, straddling his waist, before realigning her core with his manhood and continuing, hands hand on his chest as she bounced up and down, crying out as he penetrated deep into her sex. Not content to sit and let her do all the work, his hands came to rest on her hips, and began to rise, but not before kneeding the flesh of her ass. He reached up, fingers dancing across her grey skin, before landing on her breasts, beginning to squeeze them. Enticed, she leaned forward until her body was parallel with his, her bust bouncing hypnotizingly infront of him. But he had achieved what he wanted, and he wasted no time in embracing her as she kissed her long and deep.

After another fifteen minutes, Tali clenched around him again, and he could feel his climax approaching as well. The two pulled back, looking deep into each other's eyes, Shepard beginning to meet Tali's thrusts as the two grinded against each other to approach their orgasms together. He linked his hands with her and held her arms out, her smaller three fingers clasped between his five. Their eyes never left each other, their expressions contorting in growing pleasure. Just as they hit their peak, they cried out in ecstasy.

"I love you!"

Their was an explosion as they reached their apex, and Tali collapsed against his chest, Shepard's head falling back against the soft, relenting envelope of his pillow, his manhood rapidly contracting as he finished his climax, feeling Tali's essence soaking him. Gently, Tali pried him out of her, before pulling herself off of him and lying to his side, completely spent and panting heavily. She wrapped one arm around his chest, pulling herself closer as she pressed herself against him, the two thoroughly content as she rested her head on his chest, Shepard craning his head to plant a kiss on her scalp. Before he forgot, he reached over to the cabinet next to their bed and opened the top drawer, pulling out two seperate packets of both levo and dextro dransitomol, with Shepard popping the levo one into his mouth and swallowing, while giving Tali a dextro one, which she promptly swallowed as well. Placing the packets back in the draw, they returned to their comfortable position, exhaling deeply. His grin deepened.

"Still...got it..." he muttered.

Tali giggled, her breath tickling the skin of his chest. She didn't bother to lift her head to look at him, too exhausted too move another muscle, "Is this the part where you point out my exhaustion and use it to stroke your male ego?"

He chuckled lightly, "Admit it, you had fun."

"Oh, don't get me wrong. Sex never gets old. But of course, you already know how I feel on the subject."

"You were great, by the way. Amazing."

"Today was special. Not everyday you get a man asking you to marry him."

He sighed, reaching up to stroke her hair, thumb running down the side of her cheek soothingly. She nuzzled her cheek directly into his hand, reciprocating the gesture with equal love, "You're a special woman. I've never been more sure of anything in my life. I want you in my life forever, Tali. I don't know about you, but in the heat of the moment...I felt complete."

"I've noticed that too," she noted, furrowing her brow, "When you...well, when you were inside me, I didn't just feel whole, I felt like everything was clarified. It was like a great mist I didn't know existed had been lifted, and I could see everything clearly," she giggled, squeezing him tighter, "Oh John...I think we're stuck with each other."

He laughed, "I can think of worse things to be stuck with."

The two of them remained in complete silence for the rest of the morning, the sun cresting the horizon as the two felt their eyes getting droopy. Exhausted from their 'taxing, bedroom calisthenics', the two allowed themselves a nap, and slowly, but surely, drifted off to sleep, wrapped in each other's embrace, exacting warmth upon the other in a way that left them with no need for the blanket that Shepard had wrapped around the both of them as they snuggled against each other. Soft snoring ensued.

Life just couldn't get any better.

* * *

 _Shepardist Headquarters, Nos Astra, Illium - December 18, 2187 - Five hours later_.

The podium looked over the large gathering of people below, their voices hushed in mutterings as they spoke to each other with soft tones, a stark contrast to the massive crowd he had intermingled with just six hours before. Just as before however, there was a diverse assortment of species present, everything ranging from the meditative asari to insouciant krogan. The difference was that they were all Shepardist members, each of them having found their purpose within the organization and embracing it. He imagined they all had different reasons: krogan joining because Shepard cured the genophage, turians joining out of a sort of respect between soldiers, quarians joining thanks to his actions on Rannoch...the reasons were endless. But their reasons didn't concern him nearly as much as his own reasons did.

He had spent the past five months conjuring up a speech for his initiation into the Shepardists. Conrad had contacted him, explaining to him that every member who wishes to join the Shepardists usually gives a speech as to why they want to join, what they feel they can contribute to the group as a whole, and why they feel they do about Shepard. Its the kind of thing one would expect from an icebreaker exercise in elementary school, but he had chosen to play along with it anyway, mainly because, once he actually took the time to think about it, a speech would only act as a more efficient conduit for what he planned to do. So, for the next five hours he had until the initiation, he had spent time writing out what he wanted to say, and now here he was, ready to present it.

He stood infront of a small raised bench, which had a built-in terminal, which he had hooked up his omni-tool to display his speech on a small, rectangular, orange holographic screen. It was connected to the PA system, which would amplify his voice by several octaves, much like Conrad had done at the congregation. The stage he stood on was raised several feet above the ground, while members of the movement sat in chairs neatly lined up in sixteen rows, with eight columns, all of the seats filled. Behind him stood Conrad and Jenna: being the leaders of the group, they were present for all initiations as 'support' (another infantile gesture he did not want or require). He raised ho complaint however, seeing no need, because after he was done, their opinions would not matter.

He read over his speech one more time, straightening his cap to realign it so it did not obscure his face. He needed the people to see him in his entirety, to demonstrate to them that he would not hide anything, and that they could trust him. Winning their trust was the first step in his new plan, one he had orchestrated as early as just a few hours ago.

One wouldn't think somebody with a severe case of memory loss and an inability to conjure a reasoning for his own aimless search could do something as sophisticated as planning a non-violent takeover of an organization: even more so when one realizes that somebody who fits that criteria should technically be ineligible or incapable of such a position in the first place. But in this circumstance, they would be wrong.

_I've never felt better. I feel great! Ever since I left that facility, I've felt lost. Not knowing where to go and what to do, following my gut instinct and nothing else! I've been lead on a search across one side of the galaxy to the next, and now that I'm here, I finally know why! My destiny rests on this world, for reasons that are gradually becoming known to me._

Writing his speech had only become easier as this truth was revealed to him. The word 'crusader' stuck with him, the man realizing just how well a descriptor it was for Shepard. The crusaders of medieval Europe led what they believed to be a holy and just campaign to free the Christian world from Islamic oppression and slaughter: not only that, but to reclaim their sacrosanct holy land from those would desecrate it. What was the difference? The reasons were different, but the results and means were the same. Shepard had waged a just campaign to free the galactic world from the oppression and slaughter of the Reapers, and when the time came, he led the greatest military campaign in history to reconquer Earth, the place of origin for his species,  _their_  species, thus ridding them of the Reaper blight. No, Shepard wasn't dissimilar from the crusaders of old at all.

If anything, he was a modern reincarnation of the same concept. Shepard was the galaxy's crusader.

Convinced of his purpose, and knowing that the only way to achieve and meet his new goals, he had taken to the stage in a rejuvenated act of confidence, ignoring Conrad and his pathetic attempts to support him and the mindless chatter of those around him. They would know the truth, as he would show it to them. And when he was done talking...Conrad would have no choice but to name him leader.

It was simply inevitable.

_Cast away the chains of the old insect that had existed just six hours ago...the one who didn't even know what he wanted. Let a phoenix rise from his ashes, renewed in strength and enlightened with glorious purpose!_

After the crowd had finally settled down and Conrad had introduced him (omitting his name, as he had still refused to provide one), he was finally motioned to begin, clearing his throat as he eyed his screen one final time, memorizing every single word. He looked up, his head slowly rising as he scanned every individual member of the group before him, before he finally pursed his lips, and began.

"Good afternoon, and welcome," he began cordially, building himself up as he stepped around the dias, shutting off his terminal screen as he clasped his hands behind his back. He could not see Conrad and Jenna's expressions behind him, but they were no doubt surprised by his sudden disregard for the well prepared speech he had tailored for himself. He stopped directly at the front of the stage, just before the edge. All eyes were on him, captivated by his abrupt movement, just as he had intended. He never broke eye contact with them for even a second, "You may have noticed I haven't provided you my name. Well, I assure you, there's a good reason for that. You see...before I came to you all, before I knew of this organization and its singular purpose, I was lost. I'm ex-military, although I can't remember signing up. I'm in my late twenties, but I can't remember a single moment of my life leading up to that. As far as my mind is concerned...I was born a month and a half ago in a rehabilitation facility on Earth. But do you know what else I remember? Shepard. I met him."

The group was completely focused on him, totally beguiled by the man before them.  _Good. Keep them watching. Let them hear my words and see them for the truth they hold. Give them time to accept it._

He began to pace, doing so evenly up and down the stage, but never breaking eye contact as he had promised to himself, "I don't remember much from before one month ago, but I do remember seeing the man himself, clad in his combat armor, leading the charge against the greatest foe we've ever faced in the thousand years our civilization has stood. Some of your ancestors fought the rachni over a thousand years ago, and some of those ancestors later fought each other in the Rebellions. They thought they'd seen the worst enemies the galaxy had to offer, but the Reapers were eager to prove us wrong. But you know what? Shepard beat them! He led us to swift victory!" he clasped his fist tightly, waving a hand over the crowd, as if trying to cast them under a spell, "Without him, none of us would be having this nice chat. So yes, I remember little, but I remember that much, and I think that says much more than a few lost memories can offer."

His hands returned to behind his back, ignoring the happy smile Conrad was shooting him, the man unaware of where this was leading, and embracing it with oblivious felicitation, "But Shepard has had his fair share of troubles. Just look at the Council: they won't admit it freely, but what they did was unjust! They ignored his threats, waited until he died, and then suddenly pretended they never existed. Do you think that is coincidence? Our governments have been playing a game of conspiracy with us for years. Shepard told them the Reapers were coming, and they played along until they were conveniently ridded of him. Despite this, he pressed on and saved us...but had the Council had their way, would we be standing here now? I think not. If there is one thing this group has gotten wrong, its that you perceive Shepard as just a savior."

He stood infront of his dias, leaning against it his arm braced ontop of its smooth, grey, polymer surface, watching them like a hawk, "But he is so much more. He's our leader. Destined to lead us to victory, whatever the circumstance. He led us to victory against the geth, and with his leadership, we won. He led us to victory against the Collectors, when our government did nothing, and achieved his triumph with nothing but twelve soldiers!  _Twelve_ against an entire race! He brought us all together, made us see through our pettiness and past grudges to defeat the Reapers, and because of his leadership,  _we were victorious_! I do not think that is a small coincidence, do you? Have you not noticed that, under Shepard, we've had more effective leadership than in the past millenium? Time and time again, Shepard has proved his worth to the galaxy! He's not just a savior, he's a liberator! The instigator! The  _leader_! He inspires loyalty wherever he goes, and destroys those who would threaten our way of life. All of you, I come to you not just to join this group as another among your rank and file, but to make you open your eyes. To see the bigger picture. All this time, you've been wasting your time on frivolous hero worship...what if I told you this group could have a grander design? One that transcends worship...and enters the realms of revolution?"

He let that simmer for a bit, allowing waves of conversation to overcome his audience. He spared a brief glance behind him, finding Jenna hurriedly whispering into Conrad's ear, while the man frowned at him. It wasn't a boorish or hostile frown however: it was one of befuddlement, one enraptured in terror and disorientation. He shook his head.

_This group is wasted on you, Mr. Verner. You don't have the balls or skills to lead this movement. This place needs a change in management. Somebody to pick up the pieces and steer it in the right direction._

He whirled back to his face the group, voice raising into a near boom as he talked over the crowd, cutting off their discussion and internal debate, "I tell you this only out of concern for what I see. Ever since I woke up in that rehab facility, I've felt a strange pull towards Shepard, one that has led me here. I don't believe that is coincidence: however, I do view it as a momentous opportunity for serenpidity. Mr. Verner here," he pointed to the man in question, who nearly baulked from being so brazenly pointed out, "would have you waste your time on pointless, irrelevant demonstrations that achieve nothing and are merely there to create an aesthetically pleasing veneer of artificial progress. Sure, its nice to be squeaky clean and morally simplistic. But I point you to human history, and ask you what revolutions have succeeded in promoting their ideas peacefully? Don't get me wrong, I do think we can do just that, but this movement needs backbone. It needs strong leadership, good direction and a solid ideology from which to stand upon. I say again: Shepard is not just our savior, he's a leader. And if we want to make change,  _real_ change, we must start making concessions. We must make Shepard what he is destined to be. To make him what the Council refuses to be, what the Spectres have failed to be, and what the Alliance and the rest of our governments are incapable of being. He must be our crusader.  **The** Crusader. A crusader of justice. Leading us into a new dawn, a new era...a new galaxy."

He nodded, hand sliding across his bench as he came to stand infront of it, leaning back against it with crossed arms, "But, I can understand if you're hesitant. You don't know me. In fact, candidly, I've just admitted to you that I hardly know myself. Fair enough. Consider what I'm doing...a public service. Think of me as a worried citizen who sympathizes with your cause and wants it to achieve its full potential. A good samaritan, if you will. And if you want to laugh me out the door, so be it. But consider this: really think hard about what this movement has accomplished. What meaningful changes have occurred? Is the galaxy really any closer to acknowledging Shepard? Are a few statues really all this galaxy can do to honor our savior? Is that the best response we can expect? Just a few hours ago the Alliance  _rejected_ your demands to have Earth Victory Day renamed. If a few statues is all you want, then I'll leave. But surely, this group can be more imaginative. Surely...this group could do with a visionary who sees the promising future it could hold, and not one who is content with smiling and meaningless congregations."

Finally, there was silence. The finishing of his speech, as he walked back around to his dias, was met with deafening quietude. Conrad opened and closed his mouth in an attempt to refute what he had just said, to combat the supposed defamation committed against his reputation and character, but just as he had predicted, the man had been unable to form the words, sealing his fate and serving as visual proof of his argument. Jenna did nothing, glaring daggers at him, to which he promptly ignored. Clearing his throat, he shattered the silence for but a moment, offering nothing more than an addendum, "If I'm right, and I know I am, then you've already acknowledged in your minds what needs to be done. When you've decided, I will be waiting. Thank you."

Leaving the stupeified crowd behind him, he disconnected his omni-tool and walked straight towards Conrad and Jenna. Jenna straightened up, her gaze offering none of the previous warmth or kindness she had offered him, while Conrad remained slumped, thoroughly crucified before the organization he had founded. Just as he arrived before them, quicker than he had expected, there was a uproarious applause that spread throughout the crowd, several people shooting up from their seats to clap or to throw their hands in the air in support. Some of them yelled words of approval, most of them along the same lines.

"Revolution  **now**!"

"Change the game!"

"Shepard must lead us!"

"Shepard  **is** the Crusader!"

Conrad watched the pandemonium with shocked appraisal, a sense of trepidation crossing his features as he realized a perfectly normal initiation ceremony had turned into a public dethronement. After a few moments, he turned to face his usurper, who gazed at him with cold callousness. Seeing no reason to sugarcoat what he was about to do, his hands remained clasped behind his back, head held hide, "I think, given the circumstances Mr. Verner, you can consider this my official application for your position. From this moment forward, I am the leader of this movement."

Jenna was outraged, keeping her anger contained no longer. She shoved him, eyes alight with fire as she stood forward to defend Conrad, who seemed incapable of doing so himself, further digging his own grave, "You little  _snake_! You deceived us with a notion of righteousness, only to spit in our face and try to take over our organization!"

"You can't-" Conrad began, swallowing deeply, his protest a woeful and pitiable squeak, "-do this...this isn't your-"

He cut them both off, motioning to the sheer bedlam behind them as people cheered him. Waiting a few seconds to accentuate his point, he continued, "You are mistaken. I am not commandeering your organization, your people have done that for me. All I needed to do was present my point of view, and they readily accepted me. And, if I may be frank, your leadership is nothing short of pitiful, Mr. Verner. This group has stagnated under your guidance, and will never grow or evolve if you continue to lead it into a static form of existence. It needs new life breathed into it. I believe I can offer that new life. Starting today."

_Oh yes. By the end of the day, the entire Shepardist organization will be under my control. I'll have gone from a nobody to the leader of a mass movement. Not bad for somebody with no long-term recollection. And changes will certainly need to be made._

Jenna hissed, sardonically waving a dismissive hand, "Sure, this group is totally going to be led by  _you._ Who even  _are_ you? You refuse to give us a name! How can a leader lead if he does not have a name?"

_I suppose she does have a point. I was always going to have to find a name eventually. Perhaps now is as great a time as any. But what name if not my own? I cannot remember who I am, so perhaps a title would suit me better._

_Yes, a title sounds good._

He wracked his brain for keywords, fumbling for something that resembled a name. He was about to give up when he remembered his speech, specifically the part regarding his role in taking over the management. He had referred to himself as a concerned citizen...a good samaritan. Yes, perhaps a title representative of his greater role in this revolutionary project would be best. An alias from which he could be identified under, giving him an identity other than that of his usual, forgettable name. One that would be remembered, not easily forgotten, and one which all would know simply by hearing it uttered.

_Yes, it will do nicely._

As the crowd got louder with its calls of support, he turned to Jenna, raising a single eyebrow, now completely ignoring the withdrawn form of Conrad, who was beginning to show signs of accepting the situation he was now embroiled in, "You can call me...the Good Samaritan."

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**And so it begins. Just some harmless hero worship...right?** _

_**Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Chapter 4 might be a while, but I'll get to writing it as soon as I can. As usual, next Flashpoint prompt (this one for killercroc) is up next. You'll also note this chapter isn't 20k and over like the last one...give me credit for restraint!** _

_**Some more music suggestions:** _

**Congregation: "The United Nations" by Patrick Doyle from the film** _ **Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit**_.

 **A Walk Along The Beach: "Splashing/The Woods/Memories" by Jerry Goldsmith and Dennis McCarthy from the TV series** _ **Star Trek: The Next Generation**_ **(0:50 to 1:55)**.

 **New Management: "Defalco's Theme" by Jack Wall from the game** _ **Call of Duty: Black Ops II**_.


	5. Espousal Polyphony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus and Kasumi receive word of Shepard's proposal to Tali. The Good Samaritan solidifies his hold over the Shepardists.

" _They spoke as though these Princes are so remote from life as we know it that the smallest sign of humanity, the mere fact even that they communicated by means of speech was worth noting and proclaiming._ " - Nancy Mitford.

* * *

 _Temporary Housing Block A1, El'Tivv, Rannoch - December 19, 2187_.

If Garrus Vakarian was going to choose a particular emotion right about now, it'd probably be...frustration.

No...boredom. That sounds about right. Far more fitting.

Garrus had convinced himself the entire point of going to Rannoch was to escape the work his position ladened him with, to take a break from being the galaxy's mandate for peace for just a few days so that he could hang out with his two best friends. Leave the reports behind, he had told himself. Go back to protecting the galaxy later, he had said. The Council will get angry, but that's alright, he had willingly deluded himself.

_Huh...right. What a load of crap. Shepard wasn't kidding when he said the work follows you everywhere. Spectres don't get vacations. Apparently galactic peace can't take a sabbatical for more than a day, and even then, somebody's bound to shake up the societal soup while you're napping. Can never catch a break._

So here Garrus was, seated behind a desk, in a temporary aparment on Rannoch...eyes boring through a datapad filled to the brim with reports. They were an unceasing tide, providing him no respite. For every report he finished, there was just one more that was left. Always just one  _more_. Never was he actually just  _done_. He had to constantly, and persistently, sift through it all and make sure he understood everything so he could respond to it effectively.

After all, he wasn't just  _a_ Spectre...he was one of the big five! The Spectre OPSCOM. Duty never rests for a turian, and Garrus' attitude just reminded him just how bad a turian he really was. A disgrace to the species, in almost every respect. Yet he was finding less and less issue with that as time went on.

_If I had been a 'good turian', then I'd never have met Shepard and been dragged off on his crazy quest to stop a rogue spectre and his geth army. I suppose being a 'bad turian' got me more than conformity ever did. Lucky me._

It had been three days since Garrus and Kasumi arrived on Rannoch to visit Shepard and Tali. The two of them had significantly missed their best friends, and with the four of them thousands of light years apart, long-range, subspace communication had become more of an annoyance than a convenience. There was only so much quantum entanglement one could take before the feeling of speaking to someone face-to-face demanded to be satiated. And after fighting together for nearly three years straight...being apart seemed a cruel and unusual punishment. It was one Garrus and Kasumi had beared for over half a year, but they knew they would eventually need to see the two again. It had seemed the perfect opportunity to do so. So when the time had arisen, and they had a chance, they booked the nearest transport and made their way to Rannoch.

For the most part, seeing Shepard and Tali again had been alleviating. To see that his best friends were not only doing well for each other, but had taken to their new lifestyle happily, meant a lot to him. After all, he had fought through thick and thin with those two since the very beginning. Shepard, the N7 turned first human Spectre and needing to prove humanity's worth to the galaxy. Tali'Zorah nar Rayya, the demure quarian pilgrim with an enthusiastic energy and infectious hatred of the geth. And then there was him, the C-Sec officer eager to spread his version of justice, regardless of the consequences. They couldn't have been more different...yet somehow, the three of them became not just a team, not just friends, but a close-knit family. And with Garrus' sniping, Tali's affinity for tech and Shepard's leadership, they were almost unstoppable. At one point, if one had asked Garrus, he probably would have said they could do almost  _anything_.

It also wasn't hard for Garrus to notice the feelings that had been developing between Tali and Shepard over the course of their campaigns. Anybody who could so much as read basic mannerisms and body language could pick up on it, and yet the two people who were the subjects of it were totally oblivious. When Shepard had died, Tali hadn't even tried to hide her grief, and the fact that she was a little more devastated by his death than the others. When Shepard came back, and she joined their crew...their relationship only seemed to get closer, as if terrified of repeating the mistakes of the past. When they finally got together...well, Garrus had a betting pool by that point.

And Zaeed, Grunt and Miranda still owed him about 3,000 credits. Never bet against the best friend's intuition.

Surviving a cataclysmic war against all odds and been able to begin seeding a new life out of that was no small feat. The three of them had achieved crazy shit that shouldn't have been possible. Shepard coming back from the dead. Garrus surviving a rocket to the face. Tali becoming an Admiral. Getting the creators of the Reapers to work with them. Destroying the Collectors. Getting the krogan and turians, batarians and humans, quarians and geth to work together...these were not feats just anybody could accomplish. And the fact they had done it all in just three years was astounding.

So when all of it stacked up, when one really took a step back and framed the greater picture...one couldn't blame Shepard or Tali for settling down. They had earned a rest, and when you've survived a war as big as the Reaper conflict, then you can't complain about them slacking off. Garrus, and Kasumi, were both happy to see that the people they had served with, fought beside and taken orders from, in some cases, were not just getting along, they were  _living_. If they weren't already set in their own ways, they might have been convinced to retire themselves.

He chuckled inwardly at that thought.  _HA! Not likely._

However, it was impossible for Garrus to deny that things had definitely changed. This was not the same Shepard who had been a whirlwind of wrath in the battlefield, who could flirt with his girlfriend while mowing down Cerberus, who could balance the duty of being a military commander and obligation of being a friend as easily as a waiter balanced plates. This wasn't the same man who had yelled down the entire quarian fleet, tackled a krogan battlemaster, punched a geth  _in the optics_ , softened the heart of Aria T'Loak, broke the veneer of Miranda 'Ice Queen' Lawson, made Jack into someone  _respectable_ , managed to calm down a krogan, earned the respect of said krogan...

This man wasn't the Shepard he knew. This wasn't Commander Shepard. This man...was just plain, simple...John Shepard. And there was nothing wrong with that. It was clear, with the war over, that Shepard wanted to drop the 'Commander' persona and live a life where he wasn't jumping from system to system, mission to mission, clearing out enemy foothold after enemy foothold. However, what he hadn't expected, especially after a war, was to learn that the man who had seemed so inconquerable, so invincible...was beginning to show cracks.

Shepard wasn't without deserving credit...he did an admirable hiding it. Smiling, cracking the odd joke, chugging beers like there was no tomorrow...but Garrus could see through it. Whether Tali had finally softened him up or not, Shepard was beginning to allow his underlying feelings to show. And they told a different story. What he had seen was a man who was haunted, both by decisions he had made and the war he had fought. A man who was a shadow of his former self, crippled by his own condition. He hadn't asked Shepard or Tali, but he had noticed the looks Tali shot Shepard whenever he had seemed to have trouble walking. Garrus had noticed too: he knew Shepard would have a permanent limp the rest of his life, but Shepard had looked so...frustrated...to demonstrate it.

Almost like he was ashamed of the very idea of having a permanent disability. Humiliated. Insulted.

The first night, when Shepard and Tali had gone to bed, and Garrus and Kasumi had taken to sleeping on the floor in the lounge room, they had quietly speculated as to Shepard's ailment. Kasumi mentioned that Tali was clearly bothered by whatever it was, but not for her own sake, but for Shepard's. Whatever Shepard's predicament was, it was not one Tali was willing to divulge to them...and neither Garrus, nor Kasumi, were willing to push them any further. There were just some topics that didn't transcend certain relationship boundaries.

The second day, he had asked Shepard if he was alright, and if he was recovering from his injuries. What he got was only a half answer: that Shepard was doing fine, and that in time, his doctor had assured him he would recover. No mention of his mental state or how he felt. Not a single reference to how it was affecting his life.

In a way, that was an answer in and of itself. But it wasn't really the answer Garrus was hoping for, and it pained him. He wanted to help his friend, but it appeared Shepard wanted none of it. All Garrus could do was hope whatever was plaguing Shepard would dissipate before it ate away at him. However, he was sure that Tali, of all people, would be able to guide him through it. After all, it was clear to him and the rest of the former  _Normandy_ crew that Tali loved Shepard without question, and that he reciprocated that love. This was something  _they_ needed to figure out.

Yesterday, Garrus had received word from the Council that they were expecting him to read and fill out a series of reports by the end of the week, which left him only two days to do so. As he was not technically 'on leave', he was still operating in his official capacity as a Spectre, and had simply used that position to get him to Rannoch: as such, he was still on duty and expected to fill out reports as was required of him. Thus, he and Kasumi were forced to return to their temporary housing in the Rannochian capital, where they would remain until Garrus had concluded his duties. While he did this, Kasumi had taken the opportunity to look around El'Tivv, with Garrus making her promise not to steal anything while she was there. Despite a pouty and snarky response, he had not wavered, and she had eventually given in and promised to pay for whatever she took.

After all, even after fighting a galactic war, old habits were hard to break, and Kasumi was, at heart, a master thief. Luckily for him, she kept her word...most of the time. He just had to silently hope now was one of those times. Kasumi was a wilful woman, and if she wanted to do something, she'd do it. But he also knew that, despite being a thief, she was also an honest person, so if she promised not to steal anything...well, he needn't worry.

_Besides...she's out doing something interesting. I think. Well, anything has to be more interesting than sitting here, reading and filing out reports. Why did I find being a Spectre alluring again? I don't think I've fired my gun at a living target since...the war ended. Last kill was a damn husk. Now my rifle, my perfected little sharpshooter, is resigned to blowing up bottles. A pretty ignominious end, really..._

His vision going blurry from staring at a desk's plain surface a while in thought, he shook his head, analyzing the contents of the spartan surface infront of him. Two empty bottles of turian beer, a single datapad and a bowl of half-eaten fried  _terrus carti_. The datapad had what looked to be a wall of text to greet him, and he could barely decipher what any of it meant from just a brief glance. The room was at just the right temperature he preferred, but one Kasumi, being a human, found suffocating. Rannoch was a hot planet, that was for sure: nowhere near the radioactive, ultraviolet, sizzling and murderous heat of Tuchanka, for sure, but it was definitely very hot, reaching 74 degrees  _hetii_  (30 degrees celsius).

Of course, this was considered typical weather on Palaven, due to the planet's unique atmosphere and environment, but for humans, who were used to a very diverse climate on their homeworld, the heat on Rannoch was nigh unbearable. Where Kasumi came from (a city called Osaka in a country on Earth called 'Japan'), temperatures averaged out at around 28 degrees in human celsius measurement, which was around 60  _hetii_. So she was definitely not used to such consistent humidity, even though Garrus didn't mind it. It certainly didn't help, in Kasumi's mind, that their accomodation lacked air conditioning, making it even more of a 'hot box' as she called it. Luckily for them, hot Rannochian days resulted in cold Rannochian nights, and the two of them were quickly rushing for a blanket when the darkness descended upon the planet. How such a planet could have such a disparate climate was anybody's guess.

_Probably just used to the artificially regulated climate of the Citadel. Sunny when they want it to be, night time when the chronometer says it is. Air conditioning and warmth wherever necessary, and in perfect, unceasingly rigid amounts. Never any different. Living in a space station has spoiled me. Besides, Shepard seems to be acclimating well._

With the temperature not bothering him in the slightest, and Kasumi nowhere to be seen, there was nothing to distract him. Nothing to set his thoughts on except the reports in front of him. He was out of excuses. And he had work to do.

_Life was so much simpler as Archangel. Massacring crime gangs and making life a general hell for anyone who so much as thought about murdering another or selling illegal substances. Back then, I was actually doing something good. Now I'm just filing out reports so some pencil pusher on the Citadel can tick me off and call me a good little Spectre. What a joke._

_Where did the good old days go? Well...we won. That's where. Now we can reap the rewards of your fight and live in boredom for the rest of our lives. Is this what I fought for? The right to live in boredom?_

He knew these thoughts were pretty selfish, and they usually only cropped up as a part of his inner childish need to find something more meaningful to do with his life. Spectres were supposed to be larger than life superheroes: the cops that finally got to shed their red tape and do whatever they needed to get the job done...no laws to get in the way. Able to find criminals normal cops couldn't, and destroy targets normal law enforcement couldn't touch. Instead...well, it was really just more of the same. Pencil pushing, and waiting, and more waiting...occasionally intimidating some asshole...then some more waiting...

These were all distractions. In the end, he finally shook his head and reached over, grabbing the second bottle and finding that only a quarter of its contents were left. He downed the reminder in one large gulp, enjoying the feel of the icy cold liquid draining down his throat, and jarring him with a warm sensation as the alcohol slid into his system. Feeling like he'd been jabbed with a jolt of electricity, he suddenly sat straight up, grabbed the datapad, and began to scroll through its contents.

It was mostly more of the same: some politician makes some erroneous claim about another politician, and that politician strikes back with his own inaccurate garbage. Witch hunt ensues, flame war on the extranet begins, left vs. right, yadda yadda yadda. In another report, Primarch Victus takes another wife after the death of his first during the Reaper War, which sparks some sensationalist gossip from an asari news outlet: something they says offends Victus, and before you knew it, Thessian News Daily is no longer welcome on Palaven. Blood Pack break out into a civil war, with one side declaring independence to form a new 'morally enlightened' mercenary coalition, while the other wants to continue extorting the innocent and enslaving people...and Aria T'Loak kills them all. Reaper bodies still be removed from most of the core worlds, Illium, Thessia and Earth namely. Rannoch celebrated their first Reclamation Day on July 21st. First official Earth Victory Day celebrated on September 24th. Batarian Hegemony cracks down on a bunch of slaver revolts, and before they know it, the entire Hegemony is at war with several ex-slave colonies vying for independence. Asari are feeling the heat from sanctions. Everybody is pissed off at the salarians for hiding out for most of the war. Quarian representatives are milking all the good will they can get. The shitlist goes on and on.

From what he could see, it was just business as usual. A year after a war that decided the fate of all life as they knew it, where every single civilization came together in a single moment to fight for their very right to exist...and the galaxy has reverted back to its usual crap. The batarians are still enslaving people, mercs are back to extorting people for money, racism returns in force for some others, media outlets are focusing on gossip instead of actual issues, politicians are back to backstabbing each other, everybody is suspicious of each other...its like nothing changed. Like last year...never happened. The Reapers, the Crucible, the Battle of London...all of it. Like the Crucible had run a memory wipe as well as an EMP throughout the galaxy and purged everybody of their memories.

He chuckled, imagining what Shepard would say about that. He'd probably say something along the lines of 'this is what we fought for. The right to squabble and prattle'. Shepard would secretly agree with him of course, as he knew the man hated politicians as much as any other rational thinking person would, but he'd always have something inspiring to say to make sure they knew it was all worth it. And he was probably right too: their squabbling now just showed that they had won. They had destroyed the Reapers, and the status quo returned in force. They had proven, beyond a doubt, that they wouldn't let the Reapers change them.

_A pity we couldn't let Harbinger change a little, though. Like getting rid of a few politicians here and there. This Larsen guy? What a bloody nutcase. Its people like him I sorta wish the Reapers had...well, taken care of. Some of the stuff he says eerily echoes a lot of the Illusive Man's and Kai Leng's rhetoric. Glad they're dead at least._

He scrolled through a few more vacuous, glassy reports, before finally finding one that grabbed his interest. Narrowing his eyes, he scrolled back up to the top of the new passage, and read the heading of the report.

_"Report: unexpected Shepardist growth on Illium."_

His interest peaked, he read through the report, all two thousand words of it, and found that while the report had noted a sizable increase in Shepardist numbers over the past month, it wasn't reaching anywhere near enough to be a concern. Cults, as a rule of thumb, were pretty innocent and harmless at the start, but could quickly and unexpectedly grow into severe threats. Just under a thousand years ago, after the Krogan Rebellions ended, all it took was a single cult taking advantage of the political vacuum to start a galaxy-wide revolution...the same revolution that led to the formation of the Terminus Systems. Tanculus' cult would forever be remembered as the threat the Council didn't take seriously until it was too late: a mistake they didn't want to make again. And while the Council hadn't gone as far as to ban cults altogether (not that they could, given this cult was headquartered in the Terminus Systems, and thus untouchable), it definitely wasn't going to ignore them as meager inconveniences as they had last time.

Despite this however, the Shepardists weren't innately dangerous or particularly menacing. For starters, all they did was stuff that amounted to hero worship, and considering said hero was the Saviour of the Galaxy, there wasn't much to take offense to. Secondly, the Shepardists, unlike Tanculus' cult or the Church of Adrian, weren't militant or paramilitary in nature. They weren't taking up arms, killing heretics or launching terrorist attacks. They were simply congregating, discussing ideas and occasionally having demonstrations that never resulted in violence. All in all, the movement was large, but heavily decentralized, and as such, had no particular figurehead, leader or unifying force that cohesively held them together, and without that, they would never be much of a threat. Together, they spanned the galaxy. Isolated, they occupied a few planets, and rarely ever coordinated or spoke to one another. The Illium cell was doing its own thing, and the ones on Earth and Tuchanka also were. If the Council was afraid the Shepardists were going to launch a revolution anytime soon, they were barking up the wrong tree. The most criminal activity the Shepardists were involved in was public disturbance and a few speeding tickets. None of that called for Spectre observation and intervention.

However, this report brought new information to light that, if anything, just confused Garrus. The group had been showing a marginal increase in numbers over the past year from which it was founded by Conrad Verner (a face Garrus would never forget) and Jenna McLean on January 2, 2187. Garrus had met Conrad in person, and knew from the get go that the Shepardist group was never going to gain enough clout to be a problem. Not only that, but Conrad couldn't, as the human saying put it, 'hurt a fly.' Conrad could barely form a coherent sentence without gushing whenever he talked to Shepard in the past, and his many escapades numbered from trying to sign up to the Spectres despite having no prior military experience, falling for an obvious extortion attempt and, to top it off, joining and aiding a terrorist organization simply because Shepard helped them at one point. The man was an idiot, to be sure, but hardly one that was going to be a threat in the near future, or ever. Imagining him leading a group of people was not only amusing in Garrus' mind, but required a suspension of disbelief to even consider.

Point being that, with Conrad as leader and the group decentralized to the point where none of the cells knew what the other was doing or could arrange coordinated decisions, the Shepardists shouldn't have been considered a blip on the radar compared to the likes of Aria T'Loak or whatever mercenary group still existed post-war. Yet this report not only painted their increase in numbers as cause for concern, but it also suggested that its recent recruitment of krogan, and even geth, into their ranks was a possible early warning sign of its militarization. Which was a ludicrous claim, but one Garrus had to acknowledge all the same.

The only thing that interested him was the addendum to the report, which showed as having been attached just yesterday as a recent update by Spectre Dekon Blar. Garrus read the attached note, which suggested that a change of leadership within the Shepardist Illium cell had occurred, as murmurs were heard throughout Nos Astra by their many contacts that suggested not only was Conrad Verner ousted as leader, but that he had been replaced by an as-of-yet unidentified person of non-descript origin or species. This person has not only successfully taken control of the organization, but has steered it in a direction that has seen a marked 4 percent increase in their numbers on Illium in just 24 hours, which were numbers Conrad Verner had never enjoyed in the year he spent as leader.

While this was a revelation Garrus hadn't expected, it still wasn't enough for him to investigate it. Conrad was a bit of an imbecile, and his removal as leader was something he had come to expect, especially given how ineffectual it had been. This new leader, whoever they were, was either going to be good or bad for the organization, but whatever the case, it wouldn't make them anymore of a threat than they were under Verner. They might even take the group in a positive direction, perhaps make it work for the greater good instead of self-aggrandisement with the guise of hero worship. Cults like that only served one purpose: to virtue-signal. He had no doubt Conrad and Jenna had good intentions, but as happens to all good intentions, they become twisted for self-gain. While he hadn't seen any evidence of that yet, it was an inevitability it would occur as their prominence grew. It might even still happen.

With the report finished, he rolled his eyes and quickly highlighted it with the datapad's cursor tool and attached it to an email. If OPSCOM wanted the Shepardists investigated so badly, they could send somebody else to waste their time doing it. Not only was Garrus currently on Rannoch and as far from Illium as one could get, but he had better things to do than chase after a lead on a simple change in management. Whoever they got to do it, he didn't care. But he certainly wasn't going to be the one to do it.

After he had sent the message and passed on the report, he read a few more mundane reports before finally calling it quits. Turning the pad off, he stood up, and grabbed the two empty bottles on the desk, tossing them into a bin next to the cooler. With a single outstretched talon, he then plucked the cooler's door open and grabbed a fresh bottle, using the same talon to pop the lid off in a single motion, the cap popping off and shooting to the ceiling with the force placed on it, causing it to bounce off and hit the ground. With a quiet chuckle to himself, he took a sip of his beer for reaching down to pick up the-

A knock on the door.

His head shot up, almost whacking the back of the fridge as he, quite comically, tried to right himself from his sudden movement. Having sufficiently corrected himself, he found himself staring at the door with a frown, wondering if he had imagined what he heard. Just as he was about to shrug it off and head back for his desk however, a second knock was heard, this time much louder. Someone was at the door.

_Can't be Kasumi, she'd just walk in without so much as a warning...or she'd sneak through some other way just to surprise me. No, she wouldn't announce her entrance with a knock. That's too conventional for her tastes. Perhaps its Shepard or Tali? No, they'd probably have sent a message ahead to let us know they were coming...so unless they're dropping by for a surprise visit, I don't know who it could be._

Garrus' first instinct was immediately that of suspicion, and his combat instincts clicked as if a light switch had been flicked. In that moment, his bottle was quietly laid on the desk, and the turian had crossed the short distance from the desk to his personal duffel bag, where he carefully and inaudibly pulled the zipper back, and dipped a hand inside, rifling through the disassembled parts of his Mantis sniper rifle (he had left the Viper in Shepard's possession, given it was his weapon) before finally grasping at his sidearm and pulling it out. He examined the sleek, smoky silver exterior of the M-77 Paladin pistol, an extremely expensive weapon that not even the richest mercenary could afford, and which fell into his ownership as one of his special Spectre privledges: one of the few joys that game with the rank.

Having no time to examine the weapon further, he heard a third knock. He wracked the slide back and found, just as he had left it, a single thermal clip locked firmly into the slot, with a reserve clip attached to the side: he always kept his weapons loaded in case of an emergency. Satisfied the weapon was primed, he flicked the safety off and in a single step, he was at the door. Pistol gripped in one hand, he stood to the wall beside it, backing up against it as he opened his omni-tool, sifting through many of the apps loaded onto the device in search of a particular one of use to him. As the temporary accomodation they were in wasn't meant for tourists (as the quarians and geth didn't even allow tourists to visit Rannoch yet), it didn't have any of the amenities one would associate with an apartment block: that included peepholes, security cameras and temperature control. So Garrus' only hope of finding out if the people knocking at his door were trouble was to...

 _There you are._ He had found it. Tapping at his omni-tool, he opened the app and made the necessary adjustments. Within moments, his omni-tool was actively searching for omni-tools to hack into: he had to remember to thank Kasumi for giving him this app later on. The program used a search program to lock onto the active wi-fi networks of omni-tools in the vicinity, latching onto their open frequency and piggybacking off that frequency so as to enter the systems of the omni-tool of origin. Once he was in, he could quickly access whatever he wanted (if the security was low enough), and find out who they were. He just had to hope whoever was knocking had low security and an open wi-fi connection.

The Spirits blessed him. After a fourth, incessant knock, he found his omni-tool's holographic interface expanding as it replaced the contents of his own omni-tool with that of his visitor. Without wasting further time, he accessed user settings, profile configuration and, finally, user ID.

To his synchronous relief and incertitude, the user was both a non-threat (from first glance anyway) and somebody he didn't know. While there was no profile picture, the name of the person in question, and their species, told him all he needed to know, and he deactivated his omni-tool, and the program in question as well, ceasing its search parameters so as to not arouse suspicion. Placing his pistol on the counter just beside him, and out of view, he unlocked the door and tapped it open.

A three-fingered hand was caught mid-knocking, and held awkwardly in the air as the person it was attached to blinked in surprise. Behind him were, to Garrus' further bewilderment, three quarian females, all of them wearing an assortment of patterns and colors in their veils, demonstrating they hailed from different clans. The male before them, the one who had been knocking, finally lowered his hand and wordlessly bowed his head in greeting, a gesture that the three females behind him soon replicated.

Garrus' right mandible twitched slightly.  _Okaayyyyyy...this is odd._

As far as Garrus knew, nobody except Kasumi, Shepard and Tali even knew where he was situated. Their temporary accomodation had been arranged by the Admiralty Board itself as a 'thank you note', and done with utmost secrecy to keep the public away for obvious reasons. How these four seemingly random people managed to find their accomodation was something Garrus would have to look into later, but now that they were here...well, the 'cat was out of the bag', as Shepard would say.

From what he could see, one of the females had the red veil of Clan Reegar, while the other two had violet and onyx veils, representing two clans he couldn't identify. The male had a light green veil, which basic research told him meant he was from Clan Mekk. None of them looked to be armed, which certainly allowed for Garrus to lower his guard a little, but not by much. He needed to find out who these people were, what they wanted, and how best to deal with them.

"Hello there," he greeted, eyes darting between the four of them before landing fully on the male, his positioning in the group indicating he was the person he should address, "Something I can do for you?"

The women chattered amongst themselves, whispering as they nodded in Garrus' direction. He frowned, wondering what they were talking about. Whatever it was, they clearly found it amusing, as he could have sworn he heard a few laughs. The male was quick to speak up, hands at his side and clutching what looked to be a small box, "Are you Garrus Vakarian?"

 _Okay, so they definitely know who I am, as if that wasn't already a given._ He briefly contemplates lying to the man and his compatriots to get them to go away. Despite his boasts and braggadocio behaviour, he had not come to Rannoch seeking to indulge the ingratiating and indebted admiration of the masses. He was simply here to spend time with his best friends, and had gone to great lengths to ensure he would not be disturbed or harassed by fans. He might boast about it, but when push came to shove, and he actually had fans asking for autographs...he'd do anything to get out of that. The name 'Archangel' was a name applied to him by a thankful fan of his work, after all. There was even an entire toy line called 'Normandy Heroes' where each member of the crew had an action figure made of them: and to his utmost regret, he was one of the highest sold. Kasumi had even bought one of them and put it on his desk as a joke...and in return, he had bought one of her, put it on her cabinet in their room, complete with a note saying 'galaxy's most famous thief.' He'd gotten a real chuckle out of that one.

Point is, he was not looking for publicity. Having these quarians here and confirming to them who he was would only draw unwanted attention, especially when said quarians went away and told others, eventually leading to his location being compromised.

But there was that other part of him...the one that just couldn't help himself. When one was considered a war hero, and had a horde of fans after them, especially of the  _female_ variety...well, who could resist?

Not Garrus Vakarian.

"That's me," he remarked, holding back a smirk. He immediately noticed the three women behind him increase their social blethering, confirming his suspicions. In the typical quarian fashion, their vocalizers blinked rapidly as they exchanged hurried ramblings and tattles, their excitement left blaringly clear.

The male breathed in deeply, chest huffing, before beginning to speak buzzingly. He shot out a hand, grabbing Garrus' in a tight grip as he shook it firmly and rapidly. The turian was taken aback briefly by the action, but quickly gained his senses and reciprocated the gesture before the quarian pulled back, "Garrus Vakarian...it is such an  _honor_  to meet one of the heroes of the  _Normandy_! You have no idea how long I've waited for this!" remembering himself, he motioned to his friends behind him, who now slowly edging forward to join him at the door, "Well,  _we've_ been waiting for this! My friends and I were on the  _Quetbyk_  during the war with the geth. The front lines. We saw firsthand what the  _Normandy_ could do! Afterwards, we read the reports of your exploits, on Rannoch and beyond! It was truly inspiring!"

Finding that he was not prepared to deal with a rambunctious and chatty quarian, Garrus tried to back out, holding up a hand to placate him, "Glad to hear it, but I-"

The quarian was having none of it, and continued talking right over him, "You're probably wondering who we are! My name is Sem'Mekk! These are my friends: Nenu'Miman, Shaeme'Werul and Wume'Sis. We're civilians, you see, so we weren't with the Migrant Fleet during the final battle over Earth. It must have been quite the sight to see Commander Shepard in action. We've heard much about him! You can imagine our  _surprise_ when we heard about his relationship with Admiral Zorah! I can't imagine how much she must feel being with a such a prestigious man!"

That caught Garrus' attention.  _Now they're suddenly focusing on Shepard. Maybe that's what this is about? Perhaps they just want to know more about him? They don't know where he is, so they're going to the second best thing. A secondary source._

The man pretty much confirmed Garrus' assumption as he continued, "Its the dream of almost every quarian to meet the Commander face-to-face. He is the man we have to thank for the Reclamation! For the final reunification between created and creator! It is thanks to him that we have our homeworld back, the geth helping us to rebuild and that victory was achieved so little blood spilled! It is thanks to him that our galaxy remains intact! We owe him our very lives, of course. The Reapers would have destroyed us all without his intervention. Yes, we are very much in his debt. All quarians are. I'm sure all geth are. We want nothing more than the chance to show our appreciation. Our grattitude. Unfortunately, the man is nearly impossible to find. The Admiralty Board will not tell us where he is, yet it is patently obvious he resides among us! People have seen him! Rumors of him building a house on the outskirts have all but been confirmed! Our admirals will not tell us, our own Conclave will not tell us, but we must meet him! It simply will not do to have the Conclave extend useless platitudes. We must thank him in person!"

 _Ah. They came to me hoping I'd tell them where Shepard is. Well, isn't this fortuitous._ He thought about what he'd say next, and how he'd respond to the man. The male would not blatantly state it, but he, and his female companions, were clearly hoping he'd tell them where Shepard was, assuming that because he was Shepard's best friend, he'd know. Well, they certainly weren't wrong in that regard...but did they need to know that?

_Shepard has gone out of his way to make sure nobody will bother him. He's kept his location secret for a very good reason. He doesn't want publicity. He's not looking for fame or letters of gratitude or a horde of fans. He just wants to be left alone with Tali in peace. It was clear from his time in the hospital he was getting pretty sick of the fan letters and soldiers fawning over him. He wanted to get away from it all, and when he finally could, he jumped on the opportunity. He's gone to extraordinary lengths to make sure he isn't found, at least not for a while. Few people actually know where he lives, and that information is limited to crew, family and a few trusted people in the military (like Hackett). It takes a strong amount of trust for him to divulge that information._

And now these quarians, obviously fans of his, were here asking for, or at least in the process of asking for, the location Garrus had been entrusted with. He knew he would have to lie: that wasn't up for debate. The real question was what lie to tell, and how to make it believable. He couldn't just straight up claim he didn't know: he needed a believable cover story. With a laborious sigh, he held up a hand to cut off the quarian before he could continue, "Look, I'd love to help you, but you're talking to the wrong guy. Shepard wouldn't tell me where he lives for...personal reasons. However, if you'd like for me to pass on a message to him, I'd be happy to do so."

The quarians look crestfallen that the man couldn't give them the location of the home of their hero, with Sem looking particulary disappointed. His shoulders slumped, head hung low a bit, unblinking. Finally, after a moment, he recomposed himself, posture straightening as he reached down and pulled out the box he had pinned under his armpit.

It was the first time Garrus was getting a proper look at the object. It had a very utilitarian design: totally black, no noticeable patterns, and made entirely from stainless steel. There were hardly any distinguishing features left on the box, not even a single letter. The design was clearly quarian in nature, as it suited their scarcity-based approach in how basic it looked. Sem held the box in the air long enough for Garrus to take the hint. He took the box from him, finding it to be surprisingly light, the turian holding it in one hand with ease. Once he was in possession of it, Sem seemed satisfied, "We would appreciate it if you could at least give Commander Shepard this box as a sign of our appreciation when you can. We are saddened we cannot meet him, but for the next time you see him, please give him this gift. We owe him an unpayable debt, but at least we can demonstrate our gratitude in a smaller way. Thank you for taking the time to speak with us. We will leave you alone now."

Before the turian could get another word in edgewise, the quarian turned and left, his companions following close behind, but not before shooting him a few more looks as they passed down the small corridor and towards the outside. Garrus, still frowning from the odd encounter, simply shut his door, locking it again. With the box still held in one hand, he grabbed his Paladin and returned it to the duffel bag, zipping it up before walking back to his desk and plopping back down in the lone chair accompanying it.

_Well...that was interesting. Can't say I was expecting for fans to knock on my door. For that matter..._

Placing the box on the table, he quickly whipped out his omni-tool and ran a basic scan of it. While he certainly didn't think these people were of any threat to Shepard, he wasn't taking any chances, especially with a gift he was supposed to give to the man. After running scans in every spectrum he could think of, he finally switched off his omni-tool. The materials the box was made out of meant nothing would block his scanning, and from what he read, there was no explosive materials or gaseous elements in the box meant to maim or kill Shepard. It wasn't a booby trap waiting to be opened. With a potential letter bomb ruled out, he lay back, looking at the box expectantly, as if willing it to shoot open and reveal its contents to him. But he knew this gift was meant for Shepard's eyes and his eyes only. So he would have to resist the urge to take a peek.

_I'll have to give it to him at the nearest opportunity. Probably whenever we head back over to their house sometime today. I don't see the harm in it. Shepard probably won't like it, but its not like I'm telling him to jump onto a stage and start dancing infront of a crowd._

Pushing thoughts of the box out of his mind, he swivelled in the chair to face the bench, preparing to drown himself in reports once more while nursing another beer. Before he could reach out and grab the lone bottle however, the haptic interface on the door shone bright green and shot open. He turned to see who it was and watched as Kasumi darted into the room, breathing tightly as her eyes turned to meet his. There was a glint in them, and he knew immediately from looking at her that she was  _very_ excited about something. That was never a good sign when it came to Garrus. It meant she had a prank or mischevious stunt up her sleeve.

"Garrus!" the thief shouted, rushing over and practically grabbing his arm as he tried to yank him to his feet. Her usage of his actual name surprised him, as she usually preferred to embarass him by using one of her nick names for him, but this time she was dropping it. Seeing as he wouldn't budge, the thief apparently decided that was reason enough to elaborate on her exuberance, "I just got the word from Tali! Shepard proposed! They're getting married!"

A moment or two passed, and a small smirk finally peeled across Garrus' mandibles.  _That son of a bitch. He finally stopped beating the bush and asked the question. He said he would eventually, but this soon? I can't believe it..._

"Come on!" the thief practically demanded, tugging on his arm one more time before letting go and allowing him to move of his own free will, darting back towards the doorway in her rush, "We've got to go visit them! Tali and I are going to have a  _long_ discussion about this!"

"I'll be right there," he declared, standing up.

"Hurry up!" the thief yelled, before she was finally out the door, the two sliding sheets of steel shut again.

Garrus, bewildered, took a moment to contemplate what had just happened.  _Its been a long time coming, Shepard. We all knew from the beginning how much those two were perfect for each other...and now Shepard's finally realized it. And Tali._

Garrus looked up for a moment, remembering his relationship with Kasumi, and how one day he could be following in Shepard's footsteps. He chuckled, dismissing the idea for the moment.  _Nowhere near as sentimental as you, Shepard. But maybe one day..._

Just as he prepared to move out to pursue Kasumi before she came rushing back to drag him out again, he remembered the box he was given, and couldn't help his gaze drifting down to the lone, featureless object on the dusty brown bench.

_Well, we are going over to visit. Now would be as good a time as any. Besides, it'd just get in the way, sitting around here._

Without giving it a second thought, he reached out and retrieved the box, slipping it into one of the pockets in his pants before standing up again, flattening out his clothing and leaving, making sure to lock up before he left.

The reports could wait. His friends were getting married.

* * *

_Royal London Hospital, England, Earth - March 15, 2187 - Five months since Shepard's retrieval._

_His arms were on fire now too. Their turn, he guessed._

_"Come on John, you're almost there. Just a few more."_

_The sweat poured down his skin like water from a running tap. Every inch of skin felt he was covered in a blanket of intense, uncomfortable warmth, his body feeling like he had been dipped in boiling water and yanked back out. His muscles were tense and strained to their maximum limit, aged and worn out cybernetics exhausting their last reserves as they pushed to keep him in position. His head pulsed with an interminable headache, able to feel his heart's pulsing as if it came from within his own skull._

_Physical therapy had been going well for Shepard. Every since he had started with his leg work two and a half months ago, his body and new cybernetics had been coping well and adapting. Within a month, his legs were practically back to their original capability, aside from the slight limp he would carry for the rest of his life. Another month, and he was able to do so without breathing difficulties, and was beginning on his arm work. And now here he was...still in the process of getting his arms to work properly._

_Given that one of them was now a cloned substitute, it was taking longer than usual for his arms to adapt, and more often than that, brain signals would occasionally fail to send the correct impulses, and his cloned arm would suddenly give out on him. Doctor Stoneman assured him this was normal with cloned limbs, and that it would take a bit for the brain to 'accept' the new appendage as part of his body. And there was no better way to force that adaptation than an age ol' favourite: push ups._

_He had been going at it for the better part of five hours. He had set an avowedly unrealistic goal for himself of 250 push ups. Tali had been the one to bring this up herself, but Shepard had insisted that the best way to stretch his body to its absolute limits was to set an extremely high goal for himself, and thus Tali had relented, once again overseeing his therapy personally. Although, she had chosen quite a funny way of...'observing'...the process._

_Deciding that her previous methods of motivation had worked in the past, Tali had laid herself on her back, arms crossed, while she suggested he position himself over her, arms braced on each side of her head. With every push up, where he'd lower himself, he'd get a small kiss on her visor, and this continued for every push up he did. Eventually however, around the 160 mark, he began to lose the energy to do so, and focused entirely on simply completing the push ups, forgetting kisses altogether. Tali had remained where she was though, urging him on and sometimes raising her head to 'kiss' him herself as he lowered: a tap of the visor to his forehead. This proved enough to keep him going, and he pressed on._

_It had been hell. It had been torture. He had wanted to collapse and fall asleep. But he was finally nearing the finish line._

_He was at 246 push ups. Just four to go._

_The sweat was practically dripping down his body now. He had stripped down to his boxers and sweat shirt to prepare for this inevitability thankfully, but his entire front was drenched to the point where it was clearly visible. His body shook slightly from the exertions, but despite his beads of perspiration dripping down onto her suit, Tali still did not move. In fact, she remained totally impassive, almost like she didn't notice it was happening. Her eyes were locked entirely onto this, lovingly urging him to press forward._

_No words were needed. No gentle stroke on the back. No nod or movement of the limbs. Just that simple look._

_He wished he could grin, generate the mask of pride and amused hubris that Tali and his friends had long since established as that of Commander Jonathan Brandon Shepard. He could smirk and all the worries and concerns of his squadmates would disappear as they knew, in that moment, everything would be fine. That no battle was unwinnable. It was a mask he had defaulted upon when even he wasn't sure a mission would succeed, but couldn't let the crew know his own thoughts for fear it would demoralize them. Weaken their resolve._

_But he had long since stopped using the mask infront of Tali. She knew better. She had seen the man underneath, yanked out his decades-worth of bottled up emotions and allowed him to open up to someone for the first time since he joined the Marine Corps. He had never been able to hide anything from her, and now the mask was useless against her. She knew just by looking at him._

_As weird as it sounded, as utterly lovey-dovey as it came off...he was putty in her hands. She had opened herself up to him, and in the process, he had opened up to her. And because of that, there was no doubt in his mind she could see the exhaustion creeping up on him. He_ _**knew** _ _she could._

_But she said nothing more. She simply looked into his eyes, willing him to continue. And that was all the motivation he ever needed from her._

_He lowered himself, and then shakingly levered himself back up. Then down again, and back up. Then again, and back. Now he stood on the precipice: one more push up, and he would be finally done. His body vibrated as he briefly considered giving up, just like all the other times before where he had flirted with temptation. Finally, he growled loudly as he lowered himself one final time, face stopping inches from Tali's mask, before finally, and with a nearly animalistic shout, heaved himself up again, waiting for his arms to lock straight before he finally surrendered._

_He gently lowered himself until he was resting ontop of her, arms quickly coming to wrap around her waist before pressing her tightly against him. He sighed explosively as he nudged his face into the crook of her neck, his warmth breath tickling her suited throat as he took solace from the scent and feel of her suit. Her own arms wrapped around his back, one hand grasping the small of his back, while the other ruffled his hair, just the way he liked it. He rolled her over until he was on his back and she rested ontop of him, the quarian quickly straddling him, but holding herself close to him. He breathed heavily._

_A few minutes passed before he had finally composed himself, his breathing becoming more steady. Tali made no movement to disturb him, and they simply held onto each other. Many physical therapy sessions ended this way: exercise, followed by cuddling. Her simple presence, coupled with the comforting embrace of her small body tightly against his, was enough to calm him, regardless of the circumstance. Many times during the Reaper War, after strenuous missions, had ended with the two cuddling on his couch or on the bed or on his desk chair, Tali holding him or Shepard holding her as they described their day, or discussed reports, or unburdened themselves emotionally. Those small moments had helped him to keep fighting. And now that the war was over, he could enjoy them simply for what they were: embraces with the woman he loved. He wouldn't give this up for anything._

_Not even becoming an admiral._

_It had come as no surprise that, after saving the galaxy from destruction, many members of the fractured Alliance Defense Department didn't just want to fill holes in their command structure, but they wanted to promote war heroes to positions of high office. Hackett was almost immediately made into the new Minister for Defense, and Shepard was slated to replace him as Fleet Admiral of the broken Fifth Fleet. Fleet Admiral Chang Teoh had been the one to approach Shepard with the proposal, in fact. Apparently the military command chain hadn't been made fully aware of his retirement...either that, or they simply didn't care, and were believers of the 'once a marine, always a marine' axiom that Shepard, admittedly, had chosen to live by._

_Teoh was going to be disappointed though. Shepard had fought a long time to get to where he was, and was fully aware that for the things he did during the Eden Prime War, Collector campaign and Reaper War...he should have been promoted several times already. The entire UGC had even made up a new medal, the Milky Way Platinum Star, to award to Shepard for his actions at the end of the war. Now, they wanted to promote him to admiral. They'd probably make him 'Lord Protector of the Galaxy' at this point, if they could (even as ludicrous as that would sound). Unfortunately, Shepard had his mind made up. Being an admiral was a long term commitment, and he had learnt from Anderson's recordings in his apartment that there was no room in a career military officer's life for marriage. Dedicated military wives were hard to come by, and while he had no doubt in his mind Tali would wait for him as long as was necessary, he was not ready to throw away everything he had fought for just so he could sit behind a desk and push papers for the rest of his life._

_In the end, it was a choice between a promotion to Fleet Admiral, or staying with Tali. It wasn't a hard decision. He liked to have thought that Teoh understood, even if the man had been divorced twice because he chose his career over the people in his life. And while men like Teoh might have been satisfied with such a job...Shepard wasn't. Enough was enough._

_He had always been destined to lead troops into battle with a rifle in his hands, boots caked in mud and decked out in combat armor. Sitting behind a desk occasionally deploying ships and making reports to a bunch of political creatures in Mombasa would be an insult to everything he had aspired to be._

_His thoughts were finally broken as Tali spoke, voice loud enough that anyone in the room could have heard it, "Hey John...I just remembered. I've got a surprise for you."_

_Strong enough to grin, he retreated from the crevice of her neck to look into her eyes, "A surprise?"_

_Her eyes behind the mask narrowed slightly. A smile, "Let's get back to your bed first, then I'll show you."_

_"Yes ma'am," he jestingly saluted, the quarian laughing slightly as she stood up, reaching down a hand to help him up. He took it willingly, and once he had stood up, he made his way back to the bed under his own power, despite his legs wobbling slightly. Once he was back in the bed, sheets covering him, he clasped his hands ontop of his stomach, raising an eyebrow at his girlfriend as Tali, instead of making her way to the left side of his bed like she usually did, went around to the right side instead._

_"What?" she asked innocently, noticing the look he gave her._

_"I know when you're planning something," he declared, now crossing his arms smugly, "You better start spilling the beans, Tali."_

_"Spill the-?"_

_"Well, look who finally stopped moping around."_

_He heard could hear the door opening before he heard the words said, so his head already been turning to face the opening doorway. He found himself shocked as none other than Joker limbed through, a gigantic smirk peeling across his lips as he mockingly tipped his cap in acknowledgement._

_"Joker?" Shepard replied, surprised by the pilot's sudden appearance, "I wasn't expecting-"_

_"Sorta the point, boy scout," came another, all-too-familiar voice as the person in question almost shoved Joker out of the way, "And I agree. It was getting pathetic having to watch you mope around like a little boy who got rejected at prom by some bitchy slut he liked."_

_He couldn't but snort at Jack's always-reliable vulgar comments, "Jack, I'm shocked. I didn't know you cared enough to keep track of my movements."_

_"Actually, that would be my job," came the breathy, cheerful voice of Liara T'Soni, the asari stepping through after Jack and Joker to greet him. It appears Tali had done more than just invite a few people from the crew, as he could now see many people gathering around outside, essentially people he recognized, "Had to use my last remaining resources as Shadow Broker to keep track of you. The state you're in...many people would love to take advantage of that."_

_"I appreciate it," he nodded, genuinely thankful for her watchful vigil over him. He hadn't even noticed that Liara was keeping track of him. Although he had a sneaking suspicion Tali knew, or was at least aware of it._

_"Don't tell me you're getting old, Shepard," Wrex's voice boomed from behind them all, the gigantic, hulking killing machine essentially shoving his way through them all until he was at the edge of his bed. A thin row of razor sharp teeth shined as he grinned, his reptilian maw creating a horrifying grin that would have left most mercs pissing their pants in fear. After all, an armoured krogan with blood red eyes was a sight most would count themselves lucky to survive._

_"Not quite. I'll never be quite as ugly as you, you disgusting reptile," he retorted._

_Any other krogan would have taken offense and whipped out a shotgun by now. As it was, Wrex slapped the edge of the hand rail, bellowing mightily, "Just needed to make sure you still had it in you, Shepard. You're a bloody slayer. I've never seen a fleshie pyjak, especially a human, survive so much punishment and walk it off like it was a mere inconvenience. Careful...many of my men might start to demand you take over as Overlord."_

_Shepard just groaned, "You can tell them that you can keep that rank, with my blessing. I'm done with politics...in all forms."_

_"Can't say I blame you. Its a tiresome business, having to keep a bunch of renewed krogan in line. Wouldn't wish it on anyone. Thankfully, Bakara's doing most of the work. Keeps me from killing anyone," Wrex affirmed. After a moment, he looked up, locking eyes with Tali before his grin returned in full force, "And how's my quarian niece doing? You looking after this old man for me?"_

_"As best I can, uncle Wrex," she returned in kind, "He's a bit of a handful."_

_"Hahaha! I bet. Well, not to worry," the krogan slapped Shepard's shoulder in what would be considered by krogan in a playful manner, but was enough to cause Shepard to wince slightly in pain, although he did well to hide it from the krogan, "This pyjak will be back up and keeping me in power in no time."_

_"Don't you have Grunt to do that for you?"_

_Wrex just scoffed, "Yes, but that runt has enough trouble keeping his mouth shut. How can I lead people if he keeps killing them?"_

_"Grunt's killing people?"_

_"Just those who challenge me," Wrex declared, chuckling a little, "Apparently after that party on the Citadel a few months back, Grunt has decided I'm old and need a bodyguard, and he's taken up the task. Now he takes to killing all my challengers. Nobody's been able to beat him. I'll give him credit, he's a tough...for a runt. Even killed a battlemaster...that one really impressed me."_

_"Really?" Shepard asked incredulously. Battlemasters were krogan warriors with biotics, but Grunt didn't have any biotics. So the fact he was able to defeat a battlemaster was more than a little surprising, "You'll have to tell me all about it some day."_

_"He'll probably exaggerate it all," the flanged voice of a turian swaggered into the room, Shepard's grin widening to its largest extent as his best friend arrived at Wrex's side, drawing the krogan's attention, "We all know I'm_ _**the** _ _most reliable story teller in this room."_

_"Key word being 'story-teller'", came another voice Shepard welcomed. He turned to watch as she entered the room, her raven black hair tied up in a ponytail and wearing her usual Alliance BDU, arms crossed and smiling, "I'm sure most of what he says is primarily of the fictional variety, skipper."_

_He laughed, grasping Garrus' shoulder tightly in a brotherly one-armed hug, "I know too well, Ash. How have you all been?" More people were entering the room now: Javik, James, Cortez, Samantha, Grunt, etc. Looked like Tali's surprise was to invite the entire crew to come see him. He would have to thank her for that later. It had been so long since he had seen them that it almost felt like an eternity. To be in the same room as them was something he had longed for a while. They_ _**had** _ _fought a galactic war together._

_As he started to converse with his former crewmates, a realization dawned on him that secretly soured his mood slightly. There were four people who deserved to be here, people who had sacrificed their lives to ensure victory. Kaidan, Mordin, Thane and Legion. Four people who he had considered comrades, friends...and eventually family. While Kaidan's loss was a well healed wound, the latter three's loss was still relatively fresh enough that it still left a sting to think about. These were people he had served with and come to know quite well. People who were no longer with them._

_It had always been difficult losing people under his command, but before his adventures on the Normandy, he had never known those people on a personal level. Gotten to know them so personally. Kaidan's troubles in the BAaT program, Mordin's struggle with the morality of the genophage, Thane's quest to redeem himself for his sins in the past and to make up for lost time with his son and Legion's mission to protect his people and understand organics. All of them had their lives cut short, all of them having just achieved their goals at the very moment their chance to reap the rewards of it was taken away from them. It wasn't fair, but Shepard would always look upon their deaths favorably. He knew they died for a good cause. Kaidan buying them time. Mordin curing a thousand year sterility plague, and giving the krogan a new hope. Thane saving the salarian councilor and, thus, the entire war effort. And Legion...breathing new life into the geth, inadvertently allowing for peace between his two peoples...they had died in a way that felt meaningful._

_Shepard had cheated death not once, but twice. His friends were not so lucky. At times, he wondered if it was really fair that he got to live when they didn't. In fact, many of the things he had been accredited as doing was the direct work of those who had sacrificed their lives. Without Kaidan, they couldn't have stopped Sovereign. Without Mordin, they would never have cured the genophage. Without Thane, the salarian councilor would be dead. Without Legion, making peace between the quarians and geth wouldn't have just been difficult, it would be astromically impossible._

_So as his crewmates surrounded him, laughing and joking along with him, he drew up his mask once more. He grinned and chuckled along with them, but deep down, he was also remembering that four people who deserved to be here weren't. Four people who should have enjoyed the fruit of the efforts weren't alive to do so. They weren't here, and yet he was._

_The galaxy liked to be cruel._

* * *

_Shepard Residence, Rannoch - December 19, 2187 - An hour later_.

His return to the present this time around wasn't as abrupt as it was the last few times he had these flashbacks. He found his eyes prying open quite gently, vision greeting him with quite the lepid sight. He was back in their bed, Tali's warm breath causing goosebumps to erect across his bare neck. Her body was tightly wound against his, his body radiating warmth like a reactor and instinctively drawing her in.

They had gone at it a couple times ever since his proposal on the beach. The question posed had awoken quite the lustful feelings in both of them, and as such, they had found themselves filled with boundless and indissoluable energy, never tiring or stopping for more than five minutes before they were interlocked once more. Shepard had lost count of the amount of times they had made love at around six. Apparently he had stopped trying. He doubted Tali would remember more than he did. Their memory had become a haze as the afternoon continued, their focus on nothing but each other as they aimed to please their every whim. They had become almost synchronous at that point, and by the time that happened, they could think of nothing else. Even their voices had fallen silent as the room ceased being filled with words, and more so with sounds of pleasure.

They had finally stopped an hour ago. Whether from exhaustion, or simply having had enough, he didn't know...or really care, for that matter. Unlike the other few times they'd done the deed, they had both not fallen asleep immediately afterwards, nor remained naked. Shepard had managed to get his boxers back on, with Tali putting her suit back on, sans her helmet, hood pulled down to allow her hair to breathe. Despite her short, abrupt breathing, Tali was not asleep, the quarian simply looking up towards the ceiling along with him as they took the time to catch their breath and compile themselves. No words were exchanged. Silence ruled the room.

Apparently he didn't even need to fall asleep to slip into a flashback anymore: how quaint. Now he could have his eyes wide open and he'd retreat into memories of his hospitalization as easy as if he were simply slipping into a gown. It was quite irritating, having constant reminders of where he had been less than a year ago, even if it meant he was no longer there. His time in the hospital on Earth hadn't been a pleasant one, and it had given him far too much free time to dwell on things he couldn't change. One of those things was his physical condition.

_I'll never be a soldier again. I've accepted that. Now why can't I move on? I thought I was happy giving that up to be with Tali. Am I having regrets? No, that can't be it. This is what I fought for. I love Tali. I asked her to marry me! I'm not a fool: I wouldn't have proposed if I didn't know for sure its what I wanted. So if its not Tali, then what is it?_

_Maybe its starting to really sink in. That the profession I've honed ever since I was 18, that the life I led for just over a decade, has come to an abrupt end. And not because I felt ready to retire, or I decided enough was enough, but because my body is actively barring me from continuing on. Everything I worked for...is finished. Becoming a marine, getting my N7 commendation, getting sworn in as the first human Spectre, leading a suicidal raid on the Collector Base, leading a galactic war effort...all of it is over. I should feel liberated, but mostly, I feel sad._

_Garrus said he misses the old days. Just us against impossible odds. Him, me and Tali tackling anything the galaxy could throw at us. Maybe that's what I miss. The good times. Our prime years. Adrenaline pumping through our veins, every mission a new revelation or danger, tackling weird and threatening new enemies. Mercenaries, Collectors, geth, my own clone, Reaper huskified hordes, the Shadow Broker's mercs, Cerberus' soldiers..._

_Perhaps that really is it. I miss the old days. And now, I'll never be able to relive them._

He was snapped from his abstraction by the sound of the door bell ringing. Craning his head slightly to the left to face the doorway, he waited a few seconds before he heard it again, confirming that what he had heard was, in fact, not in his mind. Too comfortable where he was and not really in the mood to stand up after the bedroom calisthenics he had participated in, he groaned as he gently pried himself from the equally comfortable Tali, whipping the sheets aside as he sat up, cracking his neck. The sound of the bed creaking beside him told him that Tali had wordlessly followed his example, and was in the process of putting her helmet back on.

"I'll go answer it," he volunteered, standing up as he retrieved his clothes and got dressed.

"Thanks," she replied plainly, pulling her hood up as she began fitting pieces of her helmet back together, the door bell ringing again, "Its probably Garrus and Kasumi again. I told them when we were resting that you proposed."

He scoffed, pants coming to rest around his waist as he zipped them up, fumbling around for his belt with wobbly legs. Once he had found it, he began putting it on, fingers deftly tightening the strap, "Garrus won't let me live it down, you know. He'll be constantly reminding me of the 'good ol' days of bachelorhood', and the usual dribble about sacrificing your freedom to make one's wife happy."

"He's not wrong about that last part," he whipped around to face the quarian, who gave him a mischevious wink before returning to putting her mask on, demonstrating that she had only been playing with him, "Garrus is just a  _bosh'tet_. He's just jealous."

"I think he enjoys being a bachelor, Tali. Not much for him to be jealous of."

"I think I remember you telling me you enjoyed being a bachelor too. Until you met me."

"True, but you're a special case," he stated, shirt finally wrapping around his frame just as Tali began reaching towards her side of the bed for something, "I've never met a woman I've wanted to marry before."

"Can't say I've ever met a man I've wanted to marry before either, so I guess that makes two of us," she replied, turning to reveal that held the engagement band in her hand. He watched with a change sense of satisfaction as she wrapped it around her wrist, constricting it just enough to fit snugly around her wrist. She flexed her arm, showing it off to herself, before sighing happily, "Keelah, I never thought I'd ever have one of these bands on my arm. I used to hate relationships, you know. Liked watching romance vids, but never wanted to take part in it myself."

"Really?" he asked, surprised by this admission she had never told him before, "I would have pegged you for a romantic after you forced me to watch  _Fleet and Flotilla_. And sung along to it."

Her hands fumbled around in her lap, feeling suddenly embarassed, almost like she felt that she was being scrutinized under a microscope, "Don't remind me...besides, its not that I don't like romance, its just...I never really had any luck with it. The only men who were interested in me only wanted me to solidify their clan's status or increase their own personal prestige as the one who married a Zorah, or an admiral's daughter. You were...the first who showed any real interest in me for who I was as a person, not by reputation. And you'll be the last, if I have anything to say about it."

"Let the possessiveness begin," he replied with a chuckle, making his way to the bedroom door.

"John..." she began sternly.

He held up his hands defensively, "I'm only joking, Tali. You know that."

"Its hard to tell sometimes."

"What can I say? I'm an enigma."

"You keep telling yourself that. Now let's go answer the door before Kasumi decides she wants to break-and-enter again."

He frowned at her, before shrugging, holding the door open as he waited for Tali. The quarian was quick to join him, band fastened firmly around her arm, and they exited the room together, "Should have known no security system would beat Kasumi. Not even one you helped design."

Tali just giggled lightly, following him as they walked down the stairs, the door bell chiming again as a final aide-memoire to the couple that they had visitors desperately craving their attention, "Ah...but Kasumi only  _thinks_ she's beaten my security system. What she doesn't know is that this house has an anti-hacking software that grabs the underlying code identifier of an intruding program, duplicates a copy of it, and then oscillates a single frequency to ping back at the intruding program, fooling the invading user into thinking they've simply tripped a firewall. In reality, it has copied and downloaded a copy of the code identifier for their program, allowing me to extract it, investigate it and come up with a countermeasure. In short...Kasumi doesn't know is that I  _knew_ she wasn't going to be able to resist breaking into our house to show off, and that I pre-empted this and used it as an opportunity to snag a copy of her best hacking program so I can counteract it. So the next time she tries to break in...she'll find herself unable to get inside."

As they reached the bottom, Tali realized Shepard was looking at her blankly, and she cocked her head at him, awaiting a reply. After a long, drawn out moment, a smile stretched across his face, "Have I ever told you how sexy it is when you get technical?"

"On many occasions. Not that I'm complaining."

"You really planned all of this?"

She hesitated at the foot of the stairs, then shrugged, "Well...no. That was just for show. But she doesn't need to know that. As for the rest...that was all true. I really do have a copy of her hacking program, and I'm using it to develop a countermeasure...but only to ensure our home has the best security available,  _not_  because of some rivalry between me and Kasumi." She added that last part when she noticed the look he was giving her.

"Its okay if you do," he defensively added, "Garrus and I have our kill count and 'who is the best shot' rivarly going on. Only fair you and Kasumi having something going on too. I won't judge. Besides...you're still the best engineer."

"You're biased."

"I'm shocked! My wife to be, questioning my objectivity!"

"Are you guys done squabbling? You know we can hear everything you're saying, right?"

They turned to the door and realized they were now standing right next to it, with Garrus and Kasumi likely standing right outside...if the latter wasn't already trying to break in. Turning back to each other, they stiffled laughter before Shepard finally moved forward, opened his omni-tool and unlocked the door, using the handle to pull it open.

"Finally!" Garrus sighed, "I really don't want to know what takes you so long, so I won't even ask. Its not even morning this time."

"Mind your business, bird," Shepard shot back, motioning for the turian to come inside, "I'm guessing you've heard then?"

The turian nodded, "Yeah, Kasumi told me," he turned to his human friend, before grinning sheepishly, "I know I usually have somekind of epigramic remark right around now...in fact, I've got a few lined up in my mind, as per usual. I could make some joke about 'no Shepard without Vakarian', but I think we've worn that one out. So..." he turned to the two of them, now looking more awkward. After a moment, he finally blurted it out, "...I'm happy for you. Both of you. If there's anyone I've wanted to see get married more than anyone else...its you two. Been with you both since the beginning, and its...you've both come a long way. We all have. And I'm glad you two are getting the ending you deserve."

For a few seconds, there was silence, Shepard and Tali looking at each other with surprise, before turning back to Garrus. Before Tali could say anything though, Shepard took the initiative, stepping forward and grasping Garrus' shoulder, prompting the turian to look at him directly, "We've been through a lot, Garrus. Through thick and thin. We've always had each other's back, and when the final battle came in London, I didn't hesitate for a second when choosing the people I wanted to finish the fight with me. You were there for me at the start, after I died and when we charged the Beam. Even after you were injured, you still wanted to fight on at my side. I've never known such loyalty, such friendship, in my life. I love you, Garrus. Not like I love Tali, but as a brother. And if I'm going to be marrying one of my best friends..." he shot Tali a knowing look, before turning back to his friend, "...then I want the other to be my best man."

For a moment, the turian looked totally unaffected by Shepard's bombshell statement. A few seconds passed, still nothing. When Shepard began to worry that Garrus didn't get his meaning, or that he had somehow mistranslated, there was a ping on Garrus' omni-tool, causing the turian to look down at it. After a few moments, he slowly looked back up, realization dawning in his eyes, "You...want me...to be your  _prelatum ostri_? Me? Shepard, I don't think..."

"I think you should accept," came the chipper voice of Kasumi Goto, who was now waltzing through the door like she owned the place, stopping at Garrus' side, omni-tool whizzing out of existence as she confirmed the fact she had been the one to send Garrus a 'translated' version of what Shepard had proposed. Her grin was split wide, eying the confused Shepard, "Oh, you don't know what a  _prelatum ostri_  is? To be fair, neither did I, but when I searched it up...its basically exactly like a best man, but turians take that kind of stuff more seriously than we do. Turians are all about brotherhood and sacrifice and brothers in arms type stuff...so when somebody asks you to be their  _prelatum ostri_ at a bonding ceremony, they're bestowing a gigantic amount of respect on you. Its basically their way of officially initiating that person into the family. Basically Shep, you've just officially acknowledged Garrus as a brother. Fun for everyone."

Shepard turned to Garrus, now knowing exactly what this meant for Garrus, and smiled, "Yes Garrus, I want you to be my  _prelatum ostri_. If you don't feel you're up to it, that's fine. But I wouldn't want anyone else in that place."

The turian nodded, straightening up as all awkwardness departed his body, "I'd be honored to be your  _prelatum_ , Shepard."

"And now I'm just going to quietly wait until Tali here inevitably asks me to be her  _prelatum vexi_ ," she turned to Tali, head cocked to the side, and grinning, "That's the female version, by the way. Actually, scratch that, if I'm to be culturally accurate, I believe I'd be your... _bega'mik deh_?"

"Wait...how did you...?" Tali, baffled by Kasumi's use of khelish, asked with a cocked head.

She shrugged, replying flippantly as if she was explaining basic mathematics, "Come on, fishbowl...I used the extranet! You'd be surprised how many quarian bonding ceremonies are being conducted now that you have Rannoch back...apparently a lot of couples waited for the opportunity to get married on their homeworld. Didn't take long for me to find key words like that. Soooo...you going to ask?"

Tali crossed her arms for a moment, but after a brief period of feigning thought, the quarian laughed, relenting, "Yes, Kasumi...I want you to be my  _bega'mik deh_."

"Yes!" the thief cheered happily, lunging forward and embracing her little sister with a fierce hug that took the quarian by surprise, but not long to adjust to and reciprocate in kind. Eventually, the two parted, with Kasumi practically fist pumping the air, "We're going to have the  _best_ bachellorette party  _ever_!"

"Bachellorette party?" Garrus asked, turning to Shepard with a slowly developing smirk, "Does that mean what I think it means?"

Shepard slapped the turian on the back, giving a faux-resignated sigh, "Yes, Garrus. That means a bachellor party. Tali and I hadn't really intended on it, but-"

"Can't wait to see what ideas Zaeed will have for this!" the turian joked, before correcting himself after realizing his unintentional presumption, "Wait...you are inviting everyone right?"

"Yes of course, but-"

"Then we'll have to start planning!" Kasumi butted in, already opening her omni-tool and beginning to search through it for items of interest, "We'll need to choose an avenue for the wedding, create an invitation list, hire a baker for the cake, inform family members-"

"Wait!" Shepard and Tali shouted simultaneously, stopping Kasumi dead in her tracks. After a moment, Shepard laughed half-heartedly, motioning to the lounge room as he rubbed the back of his neck, "We're appreciative of the help guys, but let's not get too carried away just yet. Tali only agreed to marry me just this morning. Wait until tomorrow before you start planning our wedding."

"Right," Garrus nodded, agreeing whole-heartedly...likely so he wouldn't have to listen to Kasumi begin her laundry list of to-do events, "I wouldn't mind a beer. Got any dextro beers?"

"Tali doesn't really drink beer. She's got some turian brandy, though. Triple-filtered, though."

"Eh. I'll take sterilized brandy over nothing."

"Fair enough. I'll go grab 'em."

Shepard promptly left the room and headed for the kitchen, allowing Tali to lead Kasumi and Garrus into the lounge room where they could be seated and discuss preparations for their matrimonial ceremony. Even as he approached the fridge, just thinking about finally marrying his quarian girlfriend was sending shivers up his spine, and making him more than a little bit nervous.

It was just so...surreal. It was actually  _happening_.

He didn't waste time in grabbing a few levo and dextro cans of alcohol from the fridge, along with two cans of raspberry soft drink that he knew Kasumi liked to drink, and one he had developed a taste for, and thus ordered a few in their latest shipment of levo supplies. Once done, he quickly approached the lounge room, seating himself down next to Garrus on the couch, with Kasumi and Tali sitting on the opposite couch, already chatting away about what they wanted to do, their voices overlapping one another's so as to become a seething, incomprehensible mass of words that couldn't be deciphered. Halfway through, Shepard gave up trying to figure out what they were saying, his concentration broken by Garrus' popping the cap on the turian brandy he was brought. A second later, a disgusted hiss.

"I don't understand how Tali can like this stuff, let alone down enough to get drunk."

"You knew about that? The incident?"

"The whole ship knew within a day. Hard for you to hide the fact that you were seen walking through the crew deck carrying her in your arms while she muttered something about 'Javik being a big meanie.' And something about a 'cheerleading bosh'tet'. I made sure to send that one to Jack."

"Huh. Just don't tell Tali. She'll kill you."

"With a shotgun. I know. She's been kind enough to remind me numerous times," another sip, another hiss of disgust, "This really is awful you know."

"Hey, its literally all Tali can drink in terms of alcohol. All the other stuff is too expensive, and that's just the unsterilized versions. To get it sterilized would cause Tali to have a meltdown just looking at the pricing. So...triple-filtered brandy it is."

"I pity her tastebuds. And her stomach."

As time passed and the two silently sipped their beverages whilst watching Tali and Kasumi talk at length, Shepard became aware of an object that Garrus was holding. Frowning, he looked down at the black, featureless box held on his lap, seemingly forgotten by the turian carrying it. After realizing Shepard was staring at his lap, he looked down to see what had captured his friend's attention, and quickly sat up, "Right, yes, I was supposed to give this to you earlier, but the whole wedding discussion got me sidetracked."

"What is it?" Shepard asked, placing his beer down on the glass coffee table infront of him before reaching down and picking it up, seating it down in his own lap.

He shrugged, leaning back again, "Not a clue. Got approached by some quarians at me and Kasumi's apartment. They asked for your address, but I didn't give it to them. Instead, they gave me the box in the hopes I'd pass it on to you. And before you ask, I ran a scan of it. Its not a bomb, and there's no trace of any gaseous substances or potential harmful biological contaminants. I did everything short of opening it. Suffice to say, its not a weapon."

Giving non-committal grunt, Shepard apprehensively stared at the box: not because he believed Garrus was wrong and there was a bomb in it. No, he knew there wasn't if Garrus was firm there wasn't. No, he was worried that this might be yet another misguided enthusiastic fan trying to reach out to him. He had hidden his address from the outside well to deliberately avoid this very thing in the first place.

_They'll find anyway to reach out to me. Even if it means sending gifts through my friends. God, why won't they just leave me alone?_

As he sat there, staring at the box, wondering if he should open it, he noticed Tali and Kasumi had also stopped talking, their attention also brought to the mysterious box being held in Shepard's hands. With a final parting sigh, and seeing no reason to delay things, he reached to the front of the box, unclasped it, and swung it open.

Inside...was a small dagger. Its handle was long, but thin, with Shepard's hands likely large enough to totally eclipse it if he grabbed it. The blade was a deep bronze, made of a metal that was foreign to him, yet similar enough to steel to not be totally alien. The handle itself seemed to be made of ivory, but he wasn't sure of that either, especially given the inherently alien design. The blade itself was around twenty centimeters in overall length, making it quite large for a knife. There was, at least what looked to be, a khelish inscription along the blade itself, but he couldn't make it out, and his auto-translator wasn't any help either.

At some point, Tali had stood up and made her way around the table to stand beside Shepard, with Kasumi encroaching from Garrus' side. She was now looking directly over his shoulder, Shepard pointing to the inscription and silently asking her to translate. All he got was a whispered 'keelah', followed by the quarian bringing up her omni-tool and scanning the blade itself. After a few seconds of staring at it, she spoke again, "This inscription...its Old Khelish. John, that language hasn't been used since the time of clans Rayya, Bakala and Shellen, when quarian society was composed of warring clans. That was over two thousand years ago. This blade is either ancient, or made by somebody who studies Old Khelish...the equivalent of your human Latin language. I did some study on it, but I'm not an expert, so I used an old program on my omni-tool that can translate Old Khelish scriptures. From what it reads, it says, 'Protector and Savior,'" after a moment, an epiphany must have hit Tali, because now she was gasping very audibly, hand over her auditory emulator.

"What?" Garrus asked first, surprised by Tali's exclamation.

"John..." she reached forward, picking up the blade and holding it in her hand. The blade easily fit into her three-fingered grip, which immediately told Shepard that it was designed for a quarian to wield, hence the longer, but thinner, grip. She ran a finger over the side of the blade feather lightly, careful not to cut herself. After a moment of seemingly admiring the workmanship, she turned to Shepard, "This...this blade...I know why I recognize it now. Its...the blade that Reby the Pathfinder used during her journeys with Clan Shellen across the Jf'baba ocean and into the Land of the Blind Pilgrims, which is now known as the Uma'Waz subcontinent today."

"Reby the Pathfinder? Who is that?" Shepard asked quizzically, and wondering why somebody who send him the blade of this 'Reby' as a gift, especially if it had the historical significance implied by Tali's awed expression. She looked like she was in the presence of her ancestors or something.

"Some people think she's a myth, others think she's an historical figure," Tali gulped, trying her best to compose herself and explain without delving into quarian history too deeply, "The closest equivalent in human history I can think of is...um...Captain Cook? Not...the same, not exactly...but similar. She's credited with having exposed the clans of the eastern continent, the Land of the Enlightened, to the those of the western, previously uncharted continent, the Land of the Blind Pilgrims. She's...also though to have been a warrior, trained by her father to wield every weapon made by quarians. She was a keen diplomat, and a deadly combatant who subjugated many violent and aggressive clans and subsumed them into the first republic. She's...also thought to have been the founder of Clan Zorah. Suffice to say, she's a hero. Many of my people revere her, even to this day. She's a shining example of what every quarian should aspire to be."

By the time Tali had finished talking, Shepard had already reached the same conclusion in the room everybody else had, and felt his shoulders sag as he looked blankly at the knife. His muscles tensed, and he felt a dull headache pulsing in the back of his head. He felt annoyed, bitter and fed up. He wanted to tear the knife from Tali's hands and throw it outside, but he didn't, not wanting to show disrespect to Tali and her culture. Instead, he abruptly stood up, and left the room, storming up the stairs before anybody could say anything to stop him.

The parallels were too obvious. Reby the Pathfinder. A feared warrior, and a skilled diplomat. A well known hero, an established figure of near legendary status within quarian society, and a champion of the quarian race. A woman who irrevocably changed the course of Rannochian history for the better, unified her people under one banner, and founded one of the most influential clans in quarian history: Zorah.

Commander Shepard. A feared warrior, and a skilled diplomat. A well known hero, an established figure of near legendary status within galactic society, and a champion of the human race. A man who irrevocably changed the course of galactic history for the better, unified the galaxy under one banner, and marrying a quarian belonging to one of the most influential clans in quarian history: Zorah.

Oh yes, the parallels were striking. Not just that, he knew for a fact it was deliberate. Some quarian fan of his had sent him this gift not just to thank him for his efforts, but to openly compare him to one of his people's greatest heroes, to the point where they not only sent them  _their blade_ , but simultaneously tried to make out as if he was Reby the Pathfinder reincarnate. A member of their mythology...and he was being equated with them.

They were adding him to quarian history. A perversion. A mistake. A misappropration of who he was. This was the very thing he feared would happen.

It was bad enough that he enough of an affect on people that they practically started worshipping the ground he stepped on. Now they were equating him to people of importance within their own culture. He half expected one of his own species to come up to him and start calling him the next Martin Luther King Junior next, or Avery Hill. With a dash of Jon Grissom while they're at it, and a side of Alec Ryder.

He sighed, finally reaching the top of the stairs, where he shouldered open the door and closed it behind him, isolating himself from the rest of the house. It was there he stood, in the middle of his bedroom, staring vacuously into the wall. He slowly and gradually edged his way around the bed and plopped down on it, his eyes wandering to the solitary picture on his bedside, a small smile involuntarily creeping up his lips before he repressed it.

The image of a beautiful, smiling quarian woman peered up at him from the picture, wearing nothing but the  _realk_ of her suit to keep her body covered. A bare, three-fingered hand held it against her shoulder, a flash of grey skin showing on her opposite shoulder. Shoulder length black hair, messy and unkempt, shrouded the back of her head, and piercing, glowing, silvery eyes complimented her parted lips, creased in a heartfelt smile, her nostrils flaring in response to the open Rannochian air, the sun setting behind her. Her white, canine-like teeth poked through from behind her small lips.

It was a picture of Tali, taken on the day Shepard took down the Reaper, Oblivion, and the day Legion sacrificed itself to give all geth full AI actualization. After Shepard had returned to the ship, Tali had asked to stay behind for an hour or two more, and he had allowed it, for she had chosen to leave behind her homeworld to be with him: she loved him that much. And in those two hours, she had stripped herself practically naked, covered in nothing but her realk, and snapped this shot with her omni-tool, waiting for just the right moment, catching Tikkun disappearing beyond the horizon. She suffered for it the next day, forcing him to pull her from the combat roster for a full two weeks and forcing her to take sick leave on his orders and Doctor Chakwas', but as she would put it, 'it was totally worth it.' She had framed the picture and put it on the bedside table in their cabin: when he woke up every morning, no matter what, he'd have her face to wake up to.

What he hadn't told Tali was that it had meant more to him than just that. Just before the final battle, he had removed the photo from its frame and taken it with him into battle: in those final hours, where he laid under all that rubble and thought he was going to die, he had a blood soaked photo of her to comfort him. He hadn't told her until six months afterwards, and when she had insisted on making a new photo as a replacement, he had insisted on keeping it, stating, 'it holds a special place in my heart. I'll never give it up.' And so here it was...even still had the odd dab of encrusted dried blood on the edges, where he couldn't get rid of it.

He tore his eyes from it, squeezing them shut as he turned to the doors opposite him, listening just as he heard the door open from behind him. He didn't turn around, he didn't need to. A moment later, the bed compressed as extra weight was applied to it, and sure enough, a pair of slim arms wrapped around him from behind, a helmeted head coming to rest on his shoulder, "John...I'm sorry. Garrus didn't know what was in the box. He had no way of knowing."

He nodded, gulping, "Not his fault. Not your fault. Its...you know."

"I do know," there was a moment of silence, followed by a sigh, "John, this can't keep going on. I told you, you're going to have fans wanting to show their appreciation for you. Its a phase. It will pass."

"How long until it passes?" Shepard asked bitterly, gripping his knees tightly enough that he heard one of his knuckles pop, "A year? Ten? Fifty? I've got a whole life ahead of me. Marrying you. I want a job in construction...I want to be able to live a  _normal_ life. How can I do that if every single person I run into is going to put me on a pedestal? If I sign up for a job, how do I know they'll hire me because I've got the qualifications and not because they just want to be known as the construction firm that hired the Savior of the Galaxy? What if we have-" he cut himself off, finding himself suddenly very nervous.

"Have what?" she asked innocently.  _Shit, she noticed._

"Nothing," he snapped in response, hands meeting his face as he explosively exhaled, "I'm sick of it already. I knew there would be some worship, but this is ridiculous. Sending me the blade of Reby the Pathfinder...they might as well come out with it and straight up call me Reby incarnate. I respect your culture Tali, but that doesn't mean I want to become a part of your mythology."

"Well...its not  _the_ blade," Tali admitted, "If it was, it'd be unrecognizable by now. No, the original blade was lost when the Library of Moreh was destroyed in the 90s CE. This one is just a handmade replica based on historical images of it. It just a... _really_ good replica. Somebody must have paid an enormous amount of money to get you this."

He groaned, "You're really making me feel better, Tali."

She sighed, "Look, I really don't understand the fuss. It'll blow over. Heroes are only news for as long as they're being heroes. Once they retire, people grow bored of them, because they're not doing anything worth reporting. Once you...adopt this new life of ours, they'll lose interest. For now...you've got a lot of grateful people who want to praise you. So what? A little hero worship is harmless."

"Tali...they're not just worshipping me. They're forming cults, trying to have my name plastered to everything, and buying me replica blades of those that belonged to ancient heroes. Next they'll be naming a bloody pleasure yacht in my name. Bad enough the Alliance wants to name their second  _Arbiter_ -class dreadnought after me too."

"Wow...they do? They're naming a dreadnought after you?"

"Yeah," he grumbled, " _John B. Shepard_ , it'll be called. Next will be  _David E. Anderson_. And from what I hear, the turians are going to name a ship the  _Vakarian_ after Garrus, and your people-"

"The  _Tali'Zorah_ , I know," she hissed, "I'm going to discuss that with Admiral Gerrel. Some overzealous ship captain, forget the name, came up with it. I'm going to try and talk the Admiralty Board out of doing it. Have them rename it  _Legion_ or  _Progenitor_ instead."

"Now who's trying to talk themselves out of hero worship?"

"Its different when they're naming warships after you."

"Touche," he concurred, before straightening up, hands landing on his lap as he turned towards her, cupping her right cheek with one hand as he looked into her eyes, "I'm sorry. These things frustrate me. I know it'll take time...but I guess I'm just impatient to get on with my life. That part of my life,  _our_ life, is done...no more existential galactic threats, no rogue spectres, no more shadowy terrorist organizations, no more fighting... _period_. I'm putting down the rifle, and I'm picking up the shovel, so to speak. I don't want to be treated any differently than anyone else."

She shook her head, tapping her visor to his forehead as she pulled away from him and across the bed, "Then you shouldn't have saved the galaxy then."

As Tali left the room, silently willing him to join her downstairs, door closing behind her, he briefly turned back to the observation windows in their bedroom, eyes resting on the comforting blue of the ocean roaring in the distance. He licked his lips.

_She's right. It'll roll over. How hard could it be to ignore that?_

The very least he could do is get married in peace.

* * *

 _Shepardist Headquarters, Nos Astra, Illium - December 19, 2187 - Twelve hours later_.

The Shepardist group was expanding.

It had only been a day since the Good Samaritan had taken control of the Shepardists as a whole, rising from a nobody to the leader of a galaxy-wide cultist group with a single speech and the right alias. His takeover had been a seamless process, done with no incident whatsoever. The fact he was standing here in the first place was a monument to his elevation in status.

Ever since his takeover a day ago, his living quarters had been moved to the Shepardist headquarters near central Nos Astra, which was based out of an old corporate building that had been abandoned by Sonax Industries when Illium fell during the Reaper War. Due to Sonax's losses during the war, the censure and legal investigations launched into their Council space offices due to their involvement in waging an illegal corporate war on Darvug, the numerous war crimes their mercenary forces committed, and the massive economic losses they sustained from bankrolling said conflict, Sonax Industries splintered into several shell companies, with most of its Board of Directors being indicted for war crimes, embezzling, racketeering and corruption. Suffice to say, there wasn't anything left of Sonax for them to be coming back to reclaim this building anytime soon.

Conrad and Jenna had adamantly opposed this change in management, but they would just have to get used to it. The vote the other day had been unanimous, with the Samaritan being chosen by nearly 96% percent of the Shepardist group to assume leadership. Upon his initiation, he had immediately allocated Jenna as his second-in-command, with Conrad answering to her, doing so more as appeasement than genuine satisfaction with their ability to lead. Jenna was at least competent, whereas Conrad was just...amateurish. It was obvious to everyone involved just why the vote was unanimous. They would have voted for anyone if it meant Conrad's control would be wrested away from him.

As he walked down the corridor, he gave a curt nod to the occasional greeting from a Shepardist member moving down the hall. He had enjoyed a change of clothing since his new appointment, although he had kept the cap, pants and backpack, with a new suit fitted nicely around his torso. He had just wrapped up a meeting with Conrad and Jenna, and the other members of the Shepardist leadership on other worlds, discussing the consolidation of their assets.

The Shepardist organization as a whole was a shambles. Conrad, for some reason, had allowed other cells of the organization to develop on other worlds and operate independently from the main group, with no coordination between them. This was a rookie mistake. Without any coordination between them, cult cells would fall apart. They'd either become disillusioned with the cause and disband, or they'd become militant or political without the approval of the other cells, alienating them in the process. A decentralized leadership is what had allowed the Council and other governments to crack down and destroy cults easily in the past. This would have to change.

He had wasted no time in implementing his changes. Effective immediately, the Samaritan had organized a meeting with the leaders of the Earth and Tuchanka cells, and the newly formed Rannoch and Khar'Shan cells. With some argument and deliberation, the Samaritan had convinced them to accept the surrender of their authority to him, effectively uniting the Shepardists under him. They weren't happy with it, especially not their Tuchankan cell leader, but they had accepted it, and that's all that mattered. The next step of their plan would be to reach out to the newly formed cells on the quarian and batarian homeworlds, inviting them to join the larger Shepardist organization, further galvanizing their purpose and goals.

The effect on the group was momentous. He had proven his effectiveness in just a single day, doing what Conrad and Jenna had failed to do in a year. If there doubts as to his ability to lead, they were likely squandered now.

His next order of business had been to choose missionaries to send to each of the homeworlds that hadn't developed cells yet, namely Kahje, Irune, Dekuuna, Palaven, and many others. He wouldn't bother with Heshtok, given the vorcha would have no interest in a cult such as theirs, let alone getting involved in politics or social gatherings whatsoever. They were too busy killing each other, breeding and eating to do any of that. He wouldn't bring that pestilience into their organization.

The Samaritan had a master plan for the Shepardists. He knew that if their message was to ever be heard, for it to ever be acknowledged, they would have to go galactic. Spread their message to every corner of the galaxy, to every homeworld, to every home. They musn't let the Council or any sovereign governments censor them or attempt to oppress them. They muse rise up, and allow the light of the Crusader to touch them all.

_The Crusader...yes, such a fitting name. The Crusader of Justice._

It hadn't been a name that took long for him to think up. It just sorta...popped into his mind. And it had just seemed right. Shepard truly was a Crusader, a man of justice, a man who had destroyed the enemies of the galaxy and brought forth a new dawn on civilization. He had saved them all, reclaimed his homeland, and obliterated the single greatest threat known to man. There was no debating it: Shepard was  _the_ Crusader.

This name had caught on quickly. Soon, nearly half the group was using the appointed term used by their leader. And many more were adopting it every day. Within a week, he surmized, Shepard would be known only by his new title. The title he had earned, and deserved. The Crusader would rise.

_It won't be an easy fight. Not at all. But when the smoke clears, and the Crusader rises from the ashes to lead us all to a new beginning, everybody will thank us. They will eat from our hands. And the Shepardists will go down in history as saviors, not lunatics. Liberators...not fanatics._

He stopped midway down the corridor suddenly, hands clasped behind his back, as a frown furrowed his brow.  _Fight? No, violence shouldn't be necessary. Should it? The Crusader has proven himself a man of supreme diplomatic skill. He would sooner convince the Council to step down than decimate them in battle, though he very easily could._

Still frowning, he continued his walk down the corridor, rounding the corner, narrowly avoiding bumping into a pair of chatting salarians, before continuing down, watching for his room number.  _That can't be it. The title 'Crusader' denotes violence. After all, he is destined to lead the entire galaxy. If he must do that with an iron fist, than what of it? Those who would oppose him deserve nothing but death._

He shook his head, growling quietly under his breath. Turning to make sure nobody had seen him, he continued.  _A day ago, I still didn't know who I was. Now I'm in charge of an entire cult, and I want to turn them into zealots._

_No, not zealots. Believers. Loyal servants of the Crusader. We all owe him that much. If he all he would ask of us is to make the galaxy see that we need him, then it is not up to us to question it. We questioned him before, and look where it got us._

_I can hardly even remember what_ _**happened** _ _before!_

_Irrelevant, you know that. You have a grander purpose. Who you were before doesn't matter anymore. I thought you had acknowledged that._

_I had. Doesn't mean I'm not still curious. And it doesn't mean I can't question why I suddenly want my epitaph to be established on a bloody hillside covered in the corpses of thousands of people who refused to follow his lead._

_'Want' has nothing to do with it. Necessity is the mother of all invention, and creation. The Crusader_ _**must** _ _lead us! The galaxy is already forgetting what he has done for us! They're moving on, while our savior goes forgotten once again! They must be reminded. They must not be allowed to forget. The Crusader must take up the fight, and all governments must accept his leadership, if we are to learn the true lesson from the Reaper War. History must not repeat itself. I won't let it._

He had finally reached his living quarters, the Samaritan raising his omni-tool to open the door. With a single tap, the door shot open, welcoming him into his personal apartment. Stepping through it, he made sure to check his door was locked before he practically tore off his cap and tossed it onto a nearby bench. He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders as he stepped into the lounge room proper.

His apartment wasn't anything to gawk at: much like the other living quarters the Shepardist members enjoyed, it had a simple, small lounge room, a single bedroom that barely fit a single bed inside, a toilet connected to the bedroom, and a kitchen that merged with the lounge room so seamlessly they were practically the same room. A single window was open, allowing him an unobstructed view of the surrounding Nos Astran skyline, a cool air breeze wafting through the open window from where he had left it ajar. The light was dim, but the retreating, orange hues of Tasale proved to be more than enough to light up the soulless room.

He felt a yawn creeping up his throat, making him realize just how tired he really was. He lazily allowed it to burst from his mouth, the sound carrying across the room, but drowned out by the howl of the wind outside. Stretching his arms, he rubbed the back of his neck, groaning lightly at how sore they were.

It had been a long day.

He hadn't stopped working even once. Every waking minute was spent with him discussing changes to the group's management, structure and hierarchy, and when he wasn't doing that, he was thinking or talking with Shepardist members for their thoughts. He had proposed restructuring the group from a care-free society into one more closely resembling the hierarchy of a company, with a small leadership caste known as the 'Voice'. The organization would be broken up into sections, with a leader assigned to each one, and each section performing a specialized role: one for public relations, another for missionary coordination, another for funding, one for budget and finances...the list went on. There were a few members, namely krogan, batarian and turian members, calling for a security arm, but Conrad, with Jenna backing him, had vehemently opposed this.

The Samaritan had sided with them, but only because he believed now wasn't the time. Their numbers were too few to waste time on creating a mercenary outfit with a Shepardist brand, and so he would wait until they were built up. As such, he had no doubt that as the steady flow of disgruntled and current service members of each government's respective militaries, and those of other mercenary companies and dissolved PMCs, began to flow in, the time would come for a security arm. Regardless of what Conrad and Jenna believed the Shepardists should be, they would eventually need an armed force for protection. After all, revolution was dangerous, and it attracted hatred, mistrust and, most of all, crackdown. And when that time came...they'd need to be ready. But not now.

With the days events being tiresome, but eventful, he felt his exhaustion begin to compress on him. With a relieved sigh, he cracked his knuckles, only to feel a familiar burning sensation on his arm. He ignored it for a moment, but let out a gasp as he felt a sharp sting rake itself right up his left arm, almost like a blade had struck him. Surprised, he grabbed the sleeve and yanked it up, alarmed by the painful sensation.

His eyes widened as he found a long, deep cut running from his wrist to the fossa of his arm. It stung achingly, blood pouring from the long, fleshy crevice. His arm was drenched within moments, dripping onto the floor and creating a long, red patch in the carpet. He groaned as he fell to one knee, blood pressure dropping steadily from the excess of blood, and he could see a flash of white from where the blade, or whatever had done this, cut down to the bone. The blood began to pop and sizzle, and he felt the recognizable feeling of agony erupt from his skin as the blood began to boil, his arm feeling as if it were drenched in fire. He wiped his arm desperately to clear it of blood, but more took its place in moments, and he momentarily considered collapsing.

A voice in his ear, soft as a caress, mocked him with no remorse, "Feel it now?"

He roared, shoving his elbow into the air next to him, only for it to fail in connecting to anything, meeting nothing but air. His eyes frantically searched the room, but found he was alone, with nobody else to be seen. He had definitely heard a voice. Right in his ear...he could almost feel their breath.

And their voice. He had recognized it. Was it Shepard?

_No. That...no, maybe...fuck!_

The pain didn't loosen up, and he soon felt a dull throb begin to reach out from his skull, a pulsing ebb that he realized too late was the result of him failing to take his medication earlier.

The dihydroergotamine. In his business today, in his haste to get as much work done as possible, he hadn't taken into consideration his mental state. It was likely well past time for his next dose, and with the pills sitting in his backpack, in his room, he hadn't put any thought into getting them. And now he was about to pay for it: a headache was forming, and from what he remembered, he  _did not_ want to experience another migraine. Before the doctors figured out what was wrong with him, his migraines were not just painful, they paralyzed him. The torment was so immense that the pressure on his brain not only induced seizures at their worst, but blindness and hearing loss at their breaking point. He couldn't let it get that far.

_I am not going through...that...again!_

Tearing his eyes from his wounded arm, which he now knew was just a hallucination like with the hand yesterday, as the burning sensation had evaporated and the cut on his arm gone, replaced with a long, thin white line of scar tissue and the blood flowing from his arm and onto the carpet had disappeared along with it: apparitions of the mind. In a desperate bid to reach his backpack, which was resting beside his bed, he rushed for the bedroom itself.

Big mistake.

The sudden burst in energy instantly acellerated the rate at which his migraine grew, catapulting it into crush depth. He cried out as a thunderous crack of affliction exploded in his head, registering as a sudden flash in his vision, followed by blurry myopia and rapidly appearing-and-disappearing yellow and blue dots. Dazed, he tripped over himself and collapsed onto the floor, head clipping the doorway as he reached his bedroom, causing him to spin and land on his back with a thud.

He groaned, his migraine quickly escalating, his vision spotty to the point where he could barely make out the colors of the walls, and the side of his head being bruised from his fall only added to the pain of his headache. Blinking tightly, he peered over to find his bag just within reach, and biting through the pain, he reached out and grabbed the bag, pulling it towards him, spilling its contents across the floor like a broken arm as he had left it unzipped. Spilling forth was his pills, and rolling across the floor his drink bottle. He quickly claimed the bottle, the steel creaking underneath his strong grip. Finding his breathing constricted, he began to hyperventilate, air barely making it into his lungs as his body succumbed to panic. Even the dim lighting became painful to his eyes, and he jammed them shut in the vain hope of closing out the piercing brightness.

His hand fumbled through his discarded belongings, and finally gripped his pills. Tossing them onto his chest, he popped one out, turned onto his side, practically tossed it into his mouth and took a long swig of water, before gulping audibly and loudly.

It feels like minutes that he lies there, waiting for the pain to go away. It did, but slowly, and the pill was not fast acting, as it was meant to be taken to stop the pain from occurring altogether, not to relieve it. His head came to rest in the midst of his belongings: printed photos, omni-tool upgrade parts, a simple unmodded M-3 Predator casing, sheets of paper, an empty plastic bottle, a few datapads, and more. As the migraine subsided, he felt a presence behind him, but didn't bother to look up. They weren't there. They couldn't have been.

"What a sorry sight this is...what happened to you?"

His voice was but a squeak, barely heard, even by his own ears, "Who...?"

But the voice didn't answer. And the Samaritan knew he was gone again, his identity yet to be figured out, and likely resting somewhere deep within his subconscious, a memory his own mind was keeping a secret from him.

As he rested there, waiting for the headache to finally dissipate, he found himself confused when one emotion, and one emotion only, suddenly bared its ugly head.

A tear streaked down his cheek.

Regret.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**Jesus. Fucking. Christ.** _

_**Look guys, I got struck with a really bad cold out of nowhere over the last week, and it completely crippled my resolve to do ANYTHING. And it didn't just come and go either, it hit hard, but slowly, and lasted an entire week. No work on Equilibrium (now abbreviated EQC) got done in that time period, hence why it took so long for this one to be done. I had meant to leave a note about this in the first Ultimatum outline so as to reassure you guys, but I must have been really tired, because I saved it and forgot to update the outline with the added notes. So you guys, naturally, never saw it. Silly me.** _

_**I am not dead. Equilibrium is not dead. Everything is fine, I was just sick, and now I'm back! This will be the last chapter until the next Flashpoint prompt is done, and then I'll do Chapter 5. I think you'll like the next one: you'll be getting the story's first real action.** _

_**Let me know in the reviews if I'm nailing the Good Samaritan's character correctly. My goal is to confuse the reader as to his identity and motives, but also make him sympathetic in a way that he believes he's doing the right thing, and at the same time has no bloody clue who he is or why he's doing the things he is doing.** _

_**Some more music suggestions:** _

**Reports: "She Calls" by Clinton Shorter from the film** _ **District 9**_.

 **Crew Visitation: "The Inner Light" by Jay Chattaway and Dennis McCarthy from the TV show** _ **Star Trek: The Next Generation**_.

 **A Gift From A Fan: "Dreams of the Future" by Michael McCann from the game** _**Deus Ex: Human Revolution.** _

**Samaritan's Headache: "At The Farmhouse" by John Powell from the film** _**The Bourne Identity** _ **(0:00 to 1:30).**


	6. Manifest Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard and Tali hold a housewarming party at their house, with most of the crew turning up. Jondam Bau keeps an eye on the Shepardists on Illium. Aria T'Loak witnesses first hand the madness the Samaritan has cooked up.

" _We are all heroes of our little worlds_." - Bangambiki Habyarimana.

* * *

 _Shepard Residence, Rannoch - December 27, 2187 - A week later_.

It had been a week since Shepard had initially proposed to Tali, and Kasumi had become smitten with the idea of arranging their wedding for them it seemed. Shepard knew exactly what Kasumi was like: there was a reason the crew had termed her as the 'blabbermouth' of the ship during her tenure there. The master thief never rested from her profession it seemed, and that included eavesdropping and spreading the information she acquired.

If she hadn't become a thief...Shepard was damn sure she'd have made an excellent intelligence officer.

In just over a day since Shepard's proposal was revealed to Garrus and Kasumi, the entire  _Normandy_ crew had found out. Before once could blink, both he and Tali had been sent electronic letter after letter offering congratulations in one form or another. Wrex had jokingly stated that he 'expected to see little quarians running around his throne one day', and that at least one of them better be named 'Wrex'. Jack, in her usual manner, had sent Tali a particularly... _detailed_ letter of advice telling the quarian, in one way or another, that if she ever got bored how they currently made love, she'd be on board to 'teach her a few things.' Zaeed warned him of the 'horrors of the wife', and that by his own experience, he'd wish him good luck. Jacob promised to trade notes on his own marriage. Liara was beyond excited, and was probably already conspiring with Kasumi to plan out the entire ceremony: Shepard even remembered the asari suggesting she was in contact with Admiral Raan. Ashley was ecstatic that someone she considered a little sister was getting married, and had showered Tali with girly advice...or something along those lines. And on, and on, it went...

Suffice to say, Shepard and Tali had held back from chastizing Kasumi, simply because all she had done was inform everyone, which was something they had planned on doing anyway: the rambunctious thief simply accelerated the timetable. And they couldn't fault her either, as their friendly kleptomaniac was simply too excited for them to be able to contain herself. She was practically overflowing with happiness for the two, and it had driven her personality into overdrive, not to mention her usual behaviours being amplified by a factor of ten.

It had certainly been a...interesting week, that's for sure. Upon Kasumi's insistence, Garrus had sold their temporary accomodation in El'Tivv, electing to spend the rest of their tenure there (which had now been extended to accomodate for the upcoming housewarming, turned-celebratory, party). Kasumi had used this as an opportunity to be in constant discussion with Tali, to the point where the two woman rarely left the bedroom, the door locked and Shepard and Garrus barred from entering, on the grounds that 'girl business' was out of bounds for them.

Without even intending it, Kasumi had basically exiled Shepard from his own bed. Wonderful.

Suffice to say, Shepard had spent many a night curled up on the couch, sleeping, with Garrus on the opposite couch. It was here that he learned just what quiet sleepers turians were. Their vocal cords were incapable of producing the sounds associated with snoring, so when turians slept, it always made him think Garrus had stopped breathing. He had even woken up Garrus once or twice a night to see if he was alive, only to have it explained to him. Guess it made sense too: the turians evolved to be apex predators on their planet, and thus every part of their body, from their chitinous, armoured skin, right down to their vocal cords, was designed for the purpose of killing.

Kasumi and Tali slept in the bedroom, Kasumi rolled up on the floor, while Tali lay curled up on the bed. The first time he had 'intruded' on them to wake them up, Kasumi had passive-aggressively escorted him out, announcing their intent to be down for breakfast later that morning. In the brief moment before the door practically slammed infront of his face, he had caught the look in Tali's eyes.

Even behind the mask, he could notice the pleading glance behind them. Clearly Tali wasn't enjoying this 'girl talk' too much. Just what were they discussing?

Well, Kasumi had certainly come down for breakfast. That is...she grabbed a few paste tubes for Tali, and a few rolls for herself, and then ran back upstairs again, this time locking the door using her best security program, meaning that nobody short of a geth or Tali herself could break through it. Shepard had given up in the end, spending the rest of his day with Garrus while Tali was held hostage by her friend. They had either spent those days watching extranet movies, passively discussing their lives for the past year, and their future aspirations. They had even sipped a few beers.

Each night, Shepard felt spoiled by his new fluffy bed upstairs, because the couch was awfully uncomfortable by comparison. His neck constantly cramped up when he woke up, making sitting up a process of popping every bone in his neck. His sheer height as well, well over 6 foot tall, meant his legs practically dangled over the couch's edge too, making it even more uncomfortable. Despite spending over a decade in the military, and sleeping on some of the most spartan surface known to man: whether it was the thin mattress bunks on warships, the mossy ground or wooden tree of a distant world, or the hot, dusty stone irradiated pillars of Tuchanka, the angry Aralakh sun assaulting him with intense rays of boiling conflagration, he'd sleep like a baby. He used to be a light sleeper, able to be awakened and fully alert at a moment's notice, regardless of his hourly sleep allotment. His N7 training, stranded on a world by himself for one week, stranded from the luxuries of civilization, had only made this easier. Hell, when that had happened (he had chosen Noveria), he had even gutted a varren and slept inside its guts, its intestines and body fat serving as his blanket and pillow. If he could do that, he could sleep anywhere.

Like he said...that silky soft cloud he called a bed had ruined him. He was losing his edge. To be fair though, Garrus was complaining too, although that probably had more to do with his body structure, arched back and legs not used to sleeping on human-constructed surfaces. The turian had refused to sit down in human seats, even during Kodiak deployments, as had Tali, for this very reason. So Garrus probably had a far more legitimate reason than he did. Shepard was just going to have face it: he would need to start a new calisthenic regimen if he wanted to stay fit, and that would probably include sleeping on hard surfaces again.

He'd probably never give up that bed though. Too damn comfortable. And warm.

About three days into the week proper, Shepard and Garrus had gotten bored of just hanging around the house, and chose to go out and actually do something. He had no idea what had possessed them to go and do what they had ended up doing, but it had involved a skycar, Urz in the back seat, their sniper rifles, and a tall mountain peak. Whatever the case, they had ended up parked at the base of Mount Kelle'kar, where they proceeded to hike to the top and set up camp: they planned to stay there for the night, whilst exploring the mountain and the surrounding countryside. Garrus went out hunting, using his rifle to scope out and kill a  _felni_ : although Urz helped lure it out. He then cooked and ate it, but as Shepard was levo and couldn't eat it, he simply cooked one of the steaks he had brought alone and ate that. After that, they spent the night sleeping on the hard ground, the two not having access to any tents for them to establish. They had fallen asleep to the comforting crackle of a fire, the starry night shining above them, Rannoch's four moons perched visibly in the sky over them. Shepard had always enjoyed falling asleep face up to the sky: he imagined many humans of the 21st century had done so, wondering what lay beyond in the heavens. Shepard, despite having visited those stars, still found the sight to be mesmerizing. He had fallen asleep, content.

Until a few hours later...when it started raining.

He should have remembered that this part of Rannoch was in the middle of its wet season, the closest equivalent to what Earth would call winter. On Rannoch, the water was a crystal sheen, the droplets fat and chilled, causing him to flinch with every impact on his bare skin. The downpour intensified until it felt like multiple pinpricks were stabbing his skin, finally forcing him and Garrus to relocate under the cover of a nearby ledge of rock. There, they had fallen asleep again, this time to the sound of heavy rain.

The next morning, they returned back to the skycar at the bottom, but not before Shepard paid his respects at Peta'Yala's grave. He remembered exactly where the quarian had been buried, as he had been the one to bury him. Once at the grave, he knelt down and sighed, shaking his head.

Peta'Yala had been a young, but hopelessly delusional, young quarian. Socially awkward, Peta had been a childhood friend of Tali's, before he developed a crush on her that quickly turned into an infatuation. That same obsession had made Peta into a pain in the ass on more than one occasion, and not long after that, a serious threat. He had injured Tali in an attempt to kill Shepard, and as a result, he had been exiled by the Fleet. Seven months later, during the Reaper War, he would return to Rannoch in time to save Shepard and Tali from a Cerberus strike team, who were intent on capturing Tali for the Illusive Man as leverage against Shepard.

It had been Peta's finest hour. In a moment that would restore Shepard's respect in him, Peta had bravely distracted the Cerberus captors, even attempting to force Tali's release. And while Peta paid for the action with his life, the Cerberus strike team leader shooting him in the throat, he had unintentionally bought Legion valuable time, allowing him to reactivate a platoon of geth primes that ultimately saved them.

Despite their best efforts however...Peta died. And out of respect for his sacrifice, Shepard and Tali buried his body at the base of Mount Kelle'kar, before returning to the  _Normandy_. And there he rested, a year and two months later.

Shepard had never liked Peta. He was abrasive, belligerent and argumentative. He would constantly pick fights with Shepard, and refuse to back down from his affections despite Tali repeatedly telling him she was taken and not interested. Any other situation, he'd have admired Peta's resilience and unyielding determination. But when that same man was hitting on his girlfriend, one tended to be a little less forgiving. He had never wanted to kill Peta...until he hurt Tali, albeit by accident. The attempt on his life was the final straw: as Tali was going through surgery, he had strongly contemplated going to Peta in the brig and beating him to the death. But then he decided it would be better for the man to have his own people judge him, and to be exiled and know he can never see his people again, as well as live with the knowledge that he almost killed the woman he had pined for.

It was to be his cruelest punishment, but it wasn't one he regretted, even to this day.

After Peta's death however, Shepard viewed him a little differently. Despite his shortcomings, despite everything he had done to hinder and harass him and Tali, he'd actually saved their lives. The very man he had despised for the better part of a month, and swore to kill if he encountered him again, had saved his life while Shepard was totally vulnerable. When he himself could not save the woman he loved, Peta had stepped up to the plate and done it...and traded his life for it.

And for that...Shepard was eternally grateful. Peta had earned his respect, and no matter what he had done in the past, his action of saving Tali from a horrible fate had erased all this previous misdeeds in his mind. None of them mattered anymore. As such, ever since returning to Rannoch, he had made sure to pay his respects to Peta's burial site whenever possible, and, when he was alone mostly, talked to his grave about what Tali was up to. The man had died loving Tali, and would never get to feel that love returned, so he figured the least he could do was keep him up-to-date on the progress of his crush. While Garrus waited at the skycar, he went and gave Peta the update. Twenty minutes later, they returned to his house.

The next day, Garrus was apprised that the  _Normandy_ was two days out, and that it had finished picking up the last of the crew, with the ship stocked to the top with supplies for the party. The Council had apparently expressed this dissatisfaction at the  _Normandy_ being used as a glorified taxi, but Garrus had reminded them that, as the ship was his to command, he could do whatever he wanted with it. A nice way of telling the Council to 'mind their own damn business', basically.

It also helped to remind them, repeatedly, that they owed Shepard. Garrus was making good use of his Spectre status, apparently. Council so much as  _questions_ something does? Drop Shepard's name, and they'll go ghostly silent. Works everytime.

So, with the  _Normandy_ team inbound in two days, they had what little time was left to enjoy the peace and quiet of a nearly empty house before it was filled to the brim with rowdy and frolicsome crew members. Shepard and Garrus had spent this time either taking Urz for a walk on the beach while talking galactic politics (Shepard needed keeping up to date, as he only had what was on the extranet to go on) or watch more extranet shows and vids. A new show had started four months ago called  _Citadel Stories_ , which ostensibly followed the events of the  _Normandy_ SR-1's battles with the geth and  _Sovereign_. They had both heard nothing but good reviews about the show, from the casting choices to the realism. Expecting a cringey cash grab, they risked it and chucked a few episodes on.

They finished an entire season within a day: a full sixteen episodes, 50 minutes each. Shepard was surprised at how well the actors had portrayed them: he had seen Mark Meer in a few shows before, but never in a role like this, and he was blown away at how well he seemed to capture his personality. Garrus' actor, a turian by the name of Brandi Kennerus, mirrored Garrus' own behavioural traits perfectly. And Ashe'Sroka pav Rannoch? She played the role of Tali perfectly, right down to her cute mannerisms. The entire thing was exceptional. Even the events were followed pretty accurately, aside from a few historical inaccuracies, such as the maximum range of a Diamond Back assault rifle, the rounds-per-minute of a geth pulse rifle (it fired way too slowly compared to its real life counterpart) and the amount of punishment an M35 Mako could take. Overall though, the series was really good, and even Shepard and Garrus, despite having lived these events, were annoyed when the show's first season ended with a cliffhanger just as the show's version of Shepard got the call to go to Virmire. He'd definitely have to get Tali to watch it sometime.

Season 2 couldn't come fast enough.

That night, when Shepard woke up to get a glass of water and sit on the veranda for a bit (he always did this when he couldn't sleep), he had found Tali sleeping ontop of him. He had welcomed her presence as much as he was surprised by it, but with her sleeping ontop of him, he had been unable to move and thus simply lay there, stroking the back of her hood and the crook of her back for a while until he drifted off back to sleep, the soothing purr of her light snoring lulling him back into his deep slumber.

When he woke up the next morning: she was gone. He initially assumed he was dreaming, but when Tali came down for lunch that afternoon, she had apologized for not being there when he woke up, as Kasumi had 'tracked her down' and forced her back upstairs. Shepard had jokingly told her to have fun, and she had swatted him before returning to the bedroom. He explained Tali's situation to Garrus, and the two of them shared a laugh before eating breakfast, watching a game of Galactic League Biotiball. This time, it was between the Usaru Maestros and the Trojus Kilmers. As per usual, the Maestros, being an asari team, decimated the opposition, retaining their well deserved title of 'Undefeated'. To his amusement though, one of the Kilmers accused Maestro player of cheating, stating that the Maestro player had used a stasis on him, which isn't allowed in biotiball. The player of course denied this, as would anyone who actually played the game, but the Kilmer didn't stop there. The insult 'pureblood' was thrown into the mix, and before you knew it, the Maestros and Kilmers and tangled in a brawl, continuing for minutes until local Illium law enforcement broke it up. Suffice it to say, the Kilmers' misconduct reflected badly on the Turian Hierarchy, whose military discipline, even among its civilians, was renowned and feared throughout the galaxy. The brawl broke that perception.

The night before the  _Normandy_ 's arrival, Garrus decided to change things up and downloaded extranet games for them to play. The first one was a game called  _SR-2_ , and was a flight simulator for the  _Normandy_ SR-2, but also featured other Reaper War-era ships. Developed by a company called First Contact Interactive, the game was pretty fun, and looked gorgeous in terms of graphics, but had a ton of glitches, had poor handling and the single player campaign was too short. Joker was portrayed with a cockney accent for some reason, and every single Reaper ship was locked behind a DLC paywall. He turned off the game and deleted it the moment he saw that  _Harbinger_ and the SR-1  _Normandy_ cost 120 credits to unlock in-game.

The next game,  _Grim Terminus Alliance_ , was alright. A real-time strategy game, he enjoyed playing it for a while, but found the game's grotesque and morbid play style grated on his nerves, and for someone who had seen his fair share of combat, even he thought the gore in the game was overly excessive. There was also an option to buy slaves and beat them, but one he realized he could free them, he spent most of the game doing just that. By the end, he turned it off, asking Garrus to pop on the next one.

One by one, they played as many as they could.  _Relay Defense_ was a tower defense game, except you had to stop ships coming through a relay from reaching your planet.  _The Reaping_  was a game where you controlled Reapers on Thessia, Palaven and Thessia where you had to capture and huskify as many people as possible before the UGC completed the Crucible. The game was rightfully panned for its terrible gameplay, and the controversy surrounding its depiction of real-world en-masse huskification, with human game journalists calling it the equivalent of 'making a game based on the Holocaust where you see how many Jews you can gas before the camp is liberated.' The game sold poorly (rightfully so, in his opinion), and the developer went bankrupt. Another game,  _Six Hours on Eden Prime_ , was based on the geth heretic attack on Eden Prime, and was told in a documentary format, with gameplay being realistic and following a young Nirali Bhatia in the days leading up to her death. He found the story compelling, and the gameplay tasteful and balanced. Despite the controversy, he thought the game was respectful and catalogued it. The game after that though, called  _Pilgrim's Haven_ , pissed him off. The racist depiction of the main character, a quarian, stealing from people, lying their way past law enforcement and public officials, and beating people off, made him irrevocably angry. Sure, the game was made pre-Reaper War, but that didn't change the fact he stopped playing after ten minutes. After a long night of gaming, the two had drifted off.

So yeah...it was  _definitely_ an interesting week.

Preparing the house for the crew's arrival was a relatively simple affair with Garrus' help. With the party occurring today, Kasumi had finally released her hostage, and a 'shellshocked' Tali had finally returned downstairs to help setup. When prodded for information on exactly what Kasumi had been discussing with her for  _an entire week_ , she had been fairly scarce on the details, even sounding somewhat smug about her knowledge monopoly. Shepard knew it had be to regarding wedding preparations, but he had no idea what, and it was clear the quarian wasn't budging. So he simply dropped the subject and continued on. Couches were set up, extra pillows brought down, and unused chairs from their bedroom and guest room brought down to account for the extra people. Garrus had temporarily moved his stuff and Kasumi's upstairs to make room, with Shepard 'safely locking away' Garrus' rifle in his personal armoury. When asked where this armoury was, Shepard had simply grinned and said 'every man's got a secret.' Garrus simply pouted and went about his business.

One would be hard pressed  _not_ to notice the  _Normandy_ 's arrival. If the distant boom of a ship going through reentry wasn't noticeable, amongst it the burning ball streaking through the sky, then the ear-piercing shriek of its thrusters breaching the atmosphere and roaring across the plains certainly did. Shepard walked outside, cap firmly pulled over his head, a grin plastered across his face as he watched the tiny dot rapidly get larger and larger.

Apparently, instead of docking at one of Rannoch's orbital facilities and taking a shuttle down, Joker was going to make a show of it and try to park in their frontyard. Figures.

_I was sorta joking when I said to park the Normandy in our yard, Garrus. I just hope Joker doesn't blow the house down and shatter windows with the sonic boom of those bloody engines._

A flock of  _qui'tee_ flapped through the air, a dozen of the Rannochian birds moving in a triangular formation across the orange sky. They dispersed in a flight of fear as the gigantic steel hull of the frigate invaded their airspace, the aerial predator swooping down and cutting through their path. They flew away erratically, escaping the blowback pressure of the vessel's descent.

Joker, while cocky, was smart enough to know landing too close would likely shatter every glass pane in Shepard and Tali's house, and thus elected for the best thing. With the precision only the best pilot in the galaxy could pull off, the 289 meter long  _Normandy II_ -class heavy stealth frigate executed a sharp starboard turn, its forward thrusters slowing its momentum enough for the swerve to be possible. The ship turned until its broadside was facing the house, giving Shepard a better view of the vessel. To his surprise, the Alliance colors of blue and black that had once covered the ship were gone, its hull plating now clad in onyx, with red stripes running along its spine. In place of the Alliance insignia was that of the Spectres, and the ship's name was emboldened in bright white. Due to the black exterior, light was absorbed by the hull rather than reflected by it, making the ship seem almost as if it was a shadowy phantom of the ship.

Engine power audibly cut in half as the primary and secondary thrusters turned from a loud shriek to a dull whine. As the ship's belly was edged closer and closer to the flat terrain below, Joker edged the vessel closer to the house, until finally stopping at roughly one hundred meters from the front porch. Knowing the pilot could probably see him through the  _Normandy_ 's starboard ship cameras, he held up his hands, forming a thumbs up. Confirmation that he was noticed was confirmed when Joker turned the ship around until its nose was facing him, and the gargantuan vessel finally deployed its planetary landing gear, six long prongs of reinforced steel coming to drill into the ground, supporting the enormous weight placed upon them. Moments later, the engines disengaged, the dull whine slowly ebbing away and giving into silence. He wasted no time in approaching the ship, finding himself happy to see his former command again.

_The first and last ship I'll ever command...if you don't count the SR-1 as a seperate ship. And the finest vessel I've ever laid eyes on. Ha...Garrus even got it the same coat of paint that we used after the Collector Base, when we were on the run from Cerberus. Its a good color. Black and red._

As he approached, the shuttle bay door opened and pitch towards the grassy ground below it, before the gigantic metal plate finally landed in the dirt.

And waiting at the top of the ramp...was the entire squad.

"Shepard!" came the familiar voice of Jacob Taylor. He looked different wearing a sweat shirt and shorts, especially with what looked to be an Australian akubra fitted over his head. The dark skinned man descended the ramp with a large smile, and Shepard met him halfway with his hand, grasping the man's palm tightly, flexing their muscles in the process. After a minute of what others would think was intense arm wrestling, Jacob chuckled and let go, shaking his head, "Still can't beat you, eh?"

"You should know to give up by now, Jacob," Shepard returned in kind. Ever since their days on the  _Normandy_ , Shepard had poked fun at Jacob's obsession with physical perfection and bodybuilding, and Jacob had finally challenged Shepard to constant arm wrestles as a test of strength. Jacob could never beat Shepard of course, but that didn't mean he didn't enjoy trying.

"Its those cybernetics, I tell you. They're giving you an advantage," he returned in kind, "How've you been? Brynn wishes she could be here, but she's having enough trouble taking care of our one month old little troublemaker. She extends her congratulations to you, however. About damn time, if you ask me."

"How is the baby?" Shepard asked, crossing his arms as the rest of the crew descended the ramp, carrying an assortment of materials with them. From what he could see, Miranda was already ordering crew members to bring the supplies down into the house: she hadn't changed one bit in that regard, "Was it a boy? A girl? Wait... _please_ tell me you managed to convince her..."

"Convince her of what?"

"Jacob..."

The man held up his hands defensively, grinning unapologetically, "I'm just yanking your tail, man. Nah, I convinced her. It was difficult, but I managed to do so without outright telling her you wouldn't approve. We named the baby Olympia, actually. After her grandmother."

Shepard smiled in response, before motioning to the attire, "What's with the akubra?"

"Oh? You mean this?" he flicked at the hat resting on his head, "Brynn and I just got back from vacation recently. Miranda suggested we visit Coconut Grove in Australia back on Earth. Said its where she grew up. Thought I'd uh...get with the attire. I don't know much about Australians, but Miranda seemed to approve at least."

"You went to Darwin?" Shepard asked, cringing, "Heat's worse than Rannoch."

"That's what I told Brynn. She didn't care," Jacob just shrugged, "At least its cooler here."

"What are you two little pussies gossiping about?" came the ever colorful voice of Jack. Turning to appraise the woman, he realized just how much she had changed since he first met her. When he released her on Purgatory, the convict was practically naked: had nothing but a strap to cover her private parts. He had forced her to wear a jacket at the very least, and combat armor during battle. Later, during the war, she had not only grown hair, into a ponytail no less, but the woman had kept the jacket he gave her and gotten proper pants and actually looked professional. Now she had changed once again: her hair was down to her shoulders and had been grown out completely, the golden earpiece on her right ear had been removed, and she looked to be wearing Alliance standard issue fatigues. What was up with that?

"Jack..." he stuttered, noticing Jack's crossed arms and uniform, "...you look different."

"Thanks, boy scout," she snapped back, before a smile peeled across her large red lips, "Apparently Sanders liked how I handled my students. Alliance was short on biotic specialists after our big fucking battle in London, so they signed me up. I guess you rubbed off on me and was stupid enough to accept. Now they've got me my own Alliance uniform, and I've been made headmaster of the new Grissom Academy. My students and I are living on the Citadel until the station's completed."

"Its a good look for you, Jack," he assured her, reaching up to grasp her shoulder. If anyone else had presumed to touch her like that, she'd probably have formed a singularity inside their stomach before expanding a warp field to consume their insides. Instead, she simply stiffened for a moment, before relaxing, "Really. You look good."

"Yeah, well..." in one of those rare moments of vulnerability, Jack looked to...blush. It was only for a moment though, and she quickly snapped out of it, playfully punching him in the shoulder, "...I had a big ol' pussy of an old man to teach me the ways of good and all that bullshit. You've destroyed my reputation, you sentimental wank stain."

Despite all her vulgar wording and what seemed like pejorative demeanour, this was just Jack's special way of thanking him for what he had done. As such, he took it in stride, and turned to address the rest of the group, "No doubt all of you want to talk to me at one point or another. How about we go inside?"

And so they did. The next hour and a half was spent setting up the numerous tables the crew had brought with them across the largely empty rooms of the large mansion-sized house. Cloths were snapped across empty surfaces, food and drink laid out. It was quite the smorgasbord of a selection that was presented, with one side of the table set up for dextros, while the other was for levos...basically, Tali and Garrus got the monopoly on that side.

After talking colloboratively, the crew had soon split down the middle. Tali migrated to the backyard with the women, taking with them enough chairs for them to sit, along with food and drink. No doubt Tali wanted to show off the pool Shepard had built for the house for them (she didn't know it yet, but he was hoping they could both use it one day, when Tali finally leaves her suit for good), and that she was having plenty of fun talking with her old friends again. Only people missing were most of the ship's main crew. Cortez was apparently still helping with recovery efforts back in Brazil on Earth and couldn't attend, while Samantha had been reassigned to the SIA's Special Tasks Division due to her work on the  _Normandy_ during the war. Kelly had gone to ground, but assured Shepard with the help of Liara she would meet up with him again some day, and that she had some old ends to clear up first. Ken and Gabby were still on the  _Normandy_ , but were still on their honeymoon on Thessia after they got married the week before. Both Adams and Gardner were reassigned to the SSV  _Stockholm_ , and couldn't get time off. Dr. Chakwas, much like Cortez, was still helping out in the Royal London Hospital on Earth, but expressed her congratulations nonetheless. So, unfortunately, none of them would be coming.

Shepard, meanwhile, stuck to the lounge room with all the men, the group exchanging laughter and jokes all around, along with plenty of stories.

"Bullshit, you reptilian fuck," Zaeed barked from the chair he had claimed in the corner of the room, nursing a whiskey bottle of Jack Daniels that he had been downing like it was carbonated water. He burped, waving his hand animatedly, "There's no fucking way you did that."

"I did, Massani," came the maniacal heaving chuckle of their tank-bred krogan friend, "And I choked him with his own intestines, too."

"There's simply no fucking way you took on a krogan battlemaster on foot," the heavily scarred mercenary once again dismissed, taking another swig of his bottle, "Those goddamn sons-of-bitches are like freight trains with legs. I've had one of my legs crushed by those cunts, and I barely made it out alive. I've killed dozens of krogan...hundreds, probably. But I've never taken down a battlemaster in hand-to-hand. Last time I tried...I got a hairline fracture along my fucking skull, and lost this eye," he pointed to the synthetic, milky white globe that now rested in his right eye socket, an injury of a battle Shepard had not been able to recall but now remembered thanks to Zaeed.

"Oh, he did," piped in Wrex, the present and living example of the eponymous krogan battlemaster standing in the doorway, leaning against the back of it with his arms crossed. His reptilian grin would have been terrifying to anyone else, his blood red eyes oozing nightmarish glee that would have been diagnosed by any psychologist as wickedly psychotic. Instead, Shepard, in his insane mind, had amusement in it, "I watched it happen. Little piss ant decided he was going to challenge my right to the throne, right off the bat. Wanted to go to war with the salarians, the idiot, and revenge for his cousin, Uvenk. Grunt answered the challenge and killed him in no time flat. Took him ten minutes with nothing but his fists. He sliced open his throat, tore off half his headcrest, then disemboweled him with a chip of his own armor and then used his intestines to choke the life out of him. Never seen anything like it."

"That's..." Joker began, sitting on the couch right next to Shepard on his left, holding a small glass of soft drink, "...very disgusting. And totally krogan. I'm not surprised at all."

Zaeed just grumbled, lost to his drink.

At that moment, their most unusual member chose to speak, "During my people's war with the Reapers, I dismantled a Collector's head and used it as a helmet."

Garrus laughed at that, "That's hilarious. How did you make that work?"

"A lot of modification," Javik, the last living prothean, admitted, "I stopped using it after two battles because it was too small. But during that time, I killed many Collectors with it. I even fooled some into letting me into one of their conversion facilities on Olos Trak, right before I destroyed it with whatever explosives I had. Stupid machines."

"Why do I find the idea of Javik wearing the head of one of his own people as a helmet funny?" Joker asked. When he got no answers, he just shrugged, "Right. Guess I'm just messed in the head."

"It was not one of my people anymore," Javik pointed out.

"Well...it  _technically_ was. And its still pretty fucked up."

"Is this a contest as to how messed up we can be?" rose the voice of one James Vega, the, after Javik, most recent addition to the  _Normandy_ crew roster, "Because I think I can step it up." James Vega was currently wearing his usual white Marine Corps sweat shirt, with standard issue military fatigues to compliment it. He had cut back his hair into a buzzcut as he was currently enlisted in the Interplanetary Combatives Academy, looking to specialize in the N7 commendation he received during the war. He was an N6, and from what Shepard's sources in the ICA had told him, he was doing exceptionally well, excelling above and beyond all the other cadets. Shepard smiled, knowing that James' experience on the  _Normandy_ fighting on the frontlines had given him a massive advantage.

"You serious?" Jacob spoke, rising to James' challenge. The two had been training back and forth banter ever since they officially met, their mutual obsession with physical athleticism being their common bond and rivarly. James was muscle-bound tank of a man, even outdoing Shepard in terms of sheer lean muscle mass, and the man could do pull ups and situps in his sleep. Jacob, by comparison, wasn't as lean on muscle, but he certainly made up for it in reflexes, inner discipline and attitude. James was acerbic and energetic, and often cocky, whereas Jacob was confident and humbled. Overall, the two were perfect rivals, "I doubt you've anything worse than break a nail. You're made of porcelain, man."

James, predictably, flexed his muscles, gritting his teeth while grinning like an idiot, "What you see here, is nothing less than  _rendimiento físico máximo_ , my friend. Besides, I've done plenty of weird shit. I should tell you about the time I killed a Harvester, hatched the egg it was laying, and then trained the baby to let me fly it."

A guffaw was heard, and James' look snapped to the turian sitting beside him, who was spluttering from the drink he had spat out. After a moment, Garrus finally composed himself enough to speak, "Vega, Vega, Vega. We've been through this: believable stories only. I'm the  _master_  of story-telling, and I can tell you right now, no matter how often you tell that story, nobody is going to believe you."

James just crossed his arms, eyebrows raised at the turian spectre, "What if I told you its all true, Vakarian?"

Garrus calmly and non-chalantly took another sip of his drink, "You wouldn't, because we've been through this already. When would you even get the time to do that?"

"When I was deployed to Fargone. Friends and I got drunk and went partying whilst off duty. I wandered off into the continental wastelands nearby. That's when I found the harvester and killed it."

Shepard, intrigued, was curious to learn more, "So what happened to this harvester that you hatched and trained?"

James just shrugged, "Woke up the next morning with a massive hangover and a harvester baby following me. Eventually convinced it to return to the wild the day before command informed us we were at war with the batarians. That was when my unit got shipped out to Torfan."

"I still don't believe a word of it," Garrus declared.

James just laughed, "Maybe we can stop by Fargone after this party and see if  _pájaro bebé_ is still there?"

"I would never waste such precious Spectre fuel on a fictitious detour," the turian dismissed, before finishing off the last of his drink, "What I will do is take you to my team's old hideout on Omega. Now there's a place that  _does_ exist. Shepard can prove it. I killed about...two hundred mercs...all by myself. Practically flung themselves at me. Blue Suns, Blood Pack, Eclipse and some poor freelancing bastards...even hit Shepard with a concussive round. Nothing personal."

With a half-hearted grin, Shepard just snorted, "Yeah, I know. And yes, I can atest to that. Can't prove the death toll, though. He might be slightly exaggerating."

Silence filled the room for a few moments as the group nursed their alcohol and took a breather. After at least a minute of silence between the group, Jacob spoke up again, tapping the side of the couch he was sitting on, "Have to say, nice house you got here, Shepard. Place is huge. You could fit the entire crew in here if you squeezed us. You did well for yourself. And you helped build it?"

"Yeah," he affirmed, hand stroking the soft side of the chair's armrest, before popping a cheese ladened cracker into his mouth and crunching on it, "Geth did most of the work, but I helped here and there. Tali and I planned what we wanted the house to look like, the geth and I simply built it."

Wrex's mirth was made quickly evident, the krogan chieftain's rumbling chortle was likely heard from the other side of the house, "This house is tiny compared to the usual family home on Tuchanka. Our homes have 40 rooms to fit all the children we have."

"Speaking of children..." Garrus began, mandibles twitching with poorly contained amusement, "...how goes the Urdnot household? What's the current count in children? 50?"

Wrex just chuckled, defying Garrus' expectations. At their party last year, Wrex had expressed dissatisfaction with the amount of female attention he was getting. With the genophage cured, entire scores of fertile krogan women were lining up to mate with equally fertile krogan men, and with Wrex being the Overlord of the then-United Krogan Clans, he was prime real estate. Wrex had to flee out of a window just to escape them...by that point, he had mated with around 80 women, or so he claimed. Garrus knew this, and was hoping to poke some fun at the krogan. Wrex apparently wasn't that bothered by it anymore though, "36, actually. About half of those are with Bakara. We named our first Mordin, like we promised. Next one we named Shepard..." he then turned to Garrus, smirking devilishly, "...and now we have a little Garrus running around too."

The turian choked on his drink, coughing wildly for a few seconds before his own chest to clear his airways, "Wow...Garrus? You named one...after me...gee Wrex, such...an honor..."

"No it isn't," the krogan flippantly repudiated, "Besides, you're not alone. Named one of our girls Tali, and the one after that Liara, then Ashley."

"Christ, Wrex," Shepard exclaimed, not a fan of the idea of having children named after him running around on Tuchanka. It didn't sit well with him, but he allowed that darker side of him to remain confined deep down in his consciousness, managing to sound jestful, "You're going for a full set."  _Wonder how Tali will feel learning that there's a krogan on Tuchanka headbutting people named after her. That ought to get a laugh out of her._

"I'm a full-time father now," the krogan proudly promulgated, "Never thought I'd be one. Just four years ago I was hunting people down for credits. Now I'm Overlord of the Krogan Confederacy, father to 36 healthy children, and chieftain of Clan Urdnot. Oh, and friends with a bunch of aliens. I'm feeling old just standing here."

"That's because you  _are_  old," Shepard retorted, "You're...what? Nearing 1200?"

"I lost count at around 1150. Sounds about right, though," Wrex admitted, cracking his neck inside his armor. Despite everybody else present making an active attempt to appear casual, Wrex and Grunt had been their usual selves and turned up in full combat armor. Grunt's silvery armor had received some notable enhancements, most obviously being a kinetic barrier emitter (he finally got one at least), a collapsable helmet, and additional armor plating on his back and front legs, frontal chest and back of his neck. Wrex just wore the reddish-brown armor he had been wearing since the old days, with the same scars and everything. The battlemaster probably held it to some sentimental value, just like Shepard held his old N7 helmet that he recovered from the SR-1's crash site on Alchera.

Just before Wrex could continue talking, a loud crashing sound was heard, accompanied by what sounded like a series of yelping sounds. Shepard immediately identified them as belonging to a varren, and realized it must have been Urz. He heard the sound again, this time followed by a thud, and what was clearly a whoop of delight from spectators outside.

Zaeed, apparently having nodded off, shot to attention, his speech heavily slurred, "What in goddamn hell was that? Sounded like a fucking Banshee."

"Just what are they doing out there?" Joker asked with equal curiosity, although noticeably more toned down by comparison to Zaeed's louder, irritated interjection.

"Don't know. I'll go check," Shepard announced, before standing up and leaving the room, the chatter beginning to pick up again the moment he left. He allowed a smile to grace his lips: it had been so long since he had heard the voices of his crewmates and comrades in the same room, and he enjoyed the company. After everything they went through, it felt good to let off some steam and simply 'shoot the shit'. Just to...party. Have fun. Get loud and noisy. No regulations telling them they couldn't. In fact, without Shepard being their commander anymore, he could finally just chat with them without his authority getting in the way. He could just be...himself.

After meandering through one or two hallways, he made his way into the main hallway and to the back of the house, where the back door was held slightly ajar by a stray piece of brick. The ocean breeze could be felt from the doorway, and along with it came the laughter and giggles of the women talking and joking outside. Limping slightly to the door, he held it open a little more to grant him passage, and the sight he was welcomed by was...amusing, to say the least. If not a little odd.

The backyard held a large patio that extended out for a dozen meters, both in width and length. Half of it was covered by a series of metal sheets that doused the area in shade, while another set could be extended from it via remote control to cover the rest of it during rainy days: a retractable outdoor ceiling. To the right was a seperate table and two basic chairs for outside dining, which had been taken by the  _Normandy_ women to the other side. In the middle was a five meter long, 3 meters wide pool filled with sparkling blue water, which was currently covered in a black net to stop the detritus of the outside world from getting into it. The pool was also equipped with a heater during cold winters, although he doubted they'd ever use it on Rannoch.

The pool had largely been his own idea, as Tali had largely glossed over it. He had tried to ask why she wasn't interested, but she had neglected to elaborate. In the end, he had accepted the idea that the pool would be for private use, and added it anyway. As a kid, he had always enjoyed visiting Nana Karolin's house in California in the UNAS on Earth because of the gigantic pool she had, and he enjoyed it so much that his mother ended up getting him into swimming lessons. By the end, he aced the swimming requirement of the N7 training course on those lessons alone. He had found it so much fun, and had always wanted his own swimming pool, but never got one because he constanty lived onboard starships his entire life. He had sworn that one day, when he got his own house, it would have a pool. And now it did. And as far as Tali was concerned, it was all his.

_I'll get her to swim in it one day._

The odd view he mentioned before quickly came into view. The women were seated in a semi-circle around the pool, with chairs scattered haphazardly. That wasn't the odd part: what they were doing was. Samara was seated in one chair with Miranda beside her, the two of them conversing quietly and with little alcohol in their drinks: the sensible ones of the group, apparently. EDI stood to the side and observed the entire situation play out, likely taking notes on their behaviors for further research later: part of her quest to become more human. The synthetic had finally had her body restored its former state prior to Eva's demise, making her look almost human, although her robotic mannerisms were still quite a giveaway. Still, she was at least trying.

Kasumi and Tali were observing the spectacle too, with Kasumi looking thoroughly amused while Tali looked a tad worried, but nevertheless, looked overly happy. Liara was beside them, giggling away while collecting data on her omni-tool.

At the center of it all was Jack and Ashley. The long-haired convict looked totally maniacal, screaming obscenities while Ashley whooped along with her, skulling an entire bottle of beer while cheering like a lunatic. Shepard was frowning, wondering what they were so vocally supporting, when he finally saw it as he stepped out of the doorway and further onto the patio for a better look.

There, stumbling against the wall, where a spare beer cooler had been knocked over unceremoniously, was Urz, the varren hissing and snapping playfully. Standing up from its fall, he turned back around to face his opponent, baring its hidious fangs.

And its opponent...was none other than Eezo, Jack's own pet varren. How she had managed to get him to this side of the house without him noticing was beyond him, but now that he was here, he couldn't help but be bewildered by what was going on. Eezo was a red skinned alpha varren that Jack had adopted during her shore leave with her students on Thessia following a failed military evacuation on Dekuuna. Apparently, Eezo's owner had a varren breeding business on Thessia, one of these breedings leading to Eezo's birth. And because Thessia was an eezo rich planet, Eezo developed biotic abilities. As such, Eezo wasn't just a normal alpha varren...he was a biotic alpha varren. Right up Jack's alley of course, especially with the short-temper that came with biotic varren.

And now the varren was fighting Urz, another alpha varren. Alpha varren were easy to distinguish from the normal, beta varren in that they were far larger, had longer fangs, were more vicious and dominant, and had a long red stripe that ran the length of their spine, right down to the tip of their tail. Both Urz and Eezo were alpha varren, the only difference being that Urz didn't have biotics. And now the group of women were cheering the two on as they battled it out. Shepard would have winced at the brutal display of animal cruelty, but luckily it was just playfighting, as neither of the creatures seemed to have drawn blood. This was confirmed when Urz lunged out, mouth latching around Eezo's in an attempt to place the creature in a submissive stance, Urz's teeth not even breaking the skin. Eezo simply wreathed with biotic energy and lashed out, tossing the varren aside.

Tali winced, clearly in support of Urz while Jack cheered Eezo. In her moment of disappointment, Tali turned and saw Shepard standing near the pool, and stuttered for a moment before composing herself, "Oh...John, didn't see you there."

"Hey beautiful," he chuckled, crossing his arms, "Heard Urz's yelps from the lounge. What's this all about?"

Tali just sighed, "Jack brought Eezo over from the  _Normandy_ when she learned we had our own pet varren here. Unfortunately, we forgot that its mating season for varren. And now both varren are fighting it out to see who will dominate the other and...well..."

Shepard whirled on her in an instant, eyes wide, "Wait...Eezo is a female? But isn't she an alpha varren?"

Kasumi just laughed, "Yes Shep, but varren are not entirely like the dogs on our planet. Similar, but not all the same. Alpha varren can be females as well as males."

"Oh." He hadn't really expected that. While he never claimed to be an expert on varren, the sheer amount of similarities they shared with Earth canines had simply led him to equate the two as having the same traits, including that males were the alphas. With varren, it was both genders. While dog packs did have alpha females, these 'alpha females' were usually only alphas because they mated with the alpha male, and lacked the physical traits of an 'alpha'. Apparently for varren, this wasn't just a title: the females were alphas as well. And Eezo was now attempting to mate with Urz, and Urz with Eezo. They were fighting to see who would submit to the other for rutting.

Rutting.

Breeding.

Varren puppies.

Biotic varren puppies.

" _Ohhhhhh_ ," he dumbly realized, eyes wide and now focused entirely on Eezo's and Urz's fight.

Ashley just looked at her former commander with a raised eyebrow, "Right there, skipper? You have an epiphany?"

"You could say that," he then promptly moved over to Jack, tapping her on the shoulder. The convict turned to him, a wide grin on her face.

"Hey, boy scout. Come to check out all the fun?"

"Nope," he declared, before moving over and grabbing Urz by the scruff of the neck, and pulling him away. Eezo whined in annoyance, growling momentarily before sniffing and recognizing Shepard's scent. Once she remembered who he was, she backed down and sat down, doing the fish dog equivalent of a pout.

Jack groaned, "What the fuck!? What did you do that for? It was just getting fun!"

"Oh no," he firmly declared, bringing Urz with him towards the back door, "I'm not going to have Urz making a ton of puppies with Eezo. One varren is enough, I am not helping raise a whole bunch of excitable little varren kids. I don't want to even imagine the damage bill."

"You're  _such_ a fucking killjoy!" Jack exclaimed, but quickly moved over and sat back down in her chair infront of the pool. Eezo quickly moved over to join her, resting next to the seat. Jack stroked her spinal spines, causing the varren to a satisfied guttural growl.

With a heave of effort, he tossed Urz a few meters into the house, before quickly swatting the brick aside with his foot and closing the door. With a laugh, he scratched the back of Urz's head, which he seemed to like, calming him down immediately. Looking up, he gave a sarcastic wave, and then summarily made his way back towards the lounge room, Urz trailing behind him, his rutting with Eezo totally forgotten as he now regained newfound interest in his owner.

Shepard just shook his head, and grinned.

_Yep. We're still bloody crazy._

* * *

_Abandoned Skycar Factory, Nos Astra, Illium - December 27, 2187 - Three and a half hours later_.

Jondam Bau was on a mission.

It was hotter than ever on Illium today, made only worse by Bau's position on the rooftop of an abandoned skycar factory, overlooking a small plaza down below. Tasale's light reflected brightly off the weakened steel beams of the facility's ceiling, enough to blind anyone who looked directly into it. But Bau was born on Sur'Kesh, where the humidity was more intense than Illium's due to its sprawling green jungles and rainforests, and the tinted visor of the salarian's helmet did well to ward off the intense UV rays.

The factory was a mess. The facility once belonged to a defunct skycar manufacturing company called Hawker Motoring, which had gone bankrupt and merged with another company, Parahe Motors, but was forced to shut down all its facilities on Illium, Omega and other Terminus colonies, as Parahe was only contracted to operate in Council affiliated space. As a result, the factory was very shoddily stripped of all important materials, and left empty. Many gangs used the facility to hide from the NAPD, but this would change when the Reapers attacked the planet in 2186, where parts of the building were damaged from bombardment. As such, the building was left untouched for eight months, until the block was finally bought by Tasalements (a rather uninspired portmanteau of 'Tasale' and 'Apartments'), who were slating it for demolition so they could replace it with an apartment complex. However, with the galactic economy set to enter a dark age of depression in the next four years, they were having trouble acquiring funds for the project, and thus no demolition had begun.

As such, Bau had to watch his footing. The infrastructure was extremely unstable, with many of the building's supports shaken loose or tilted at dangerous angles: there was a reason the place had been sealed off. But for a Spectre...nowhere was off limits.

The skycar factory's ceiling, whilst dangerous to traverse, offered the best view of the plaza below, giving him unfeterred visual access upon his primary interest: the Shepardist headquarters building. His mission was simple: investigate unusual increase in Shepardist activity on Illium, monitor who Shepardists are calling the 'Good Samaritan', and report back to the Council and what was found. A simple intelligence gathering operation. Nothing too complex, and he'd only have to remain on Illium for a couple of days at best.

Bau wasn't exactly satisfied with the posting, but he couldn't complain. Spectre Garrus Vakarian had originally been slated for the mission, but apparently the turian spectre was on Rannoch taking a 'vacation' to visit retired Spectre Shepard, and thus had passed the mission off to have someone else do it. And Bau got the short end of the stick, with all other spectres either deployed or otherwise unavailable. He had been on the Citadel when he received word last week, but luckily for him, it had been a short couple of relay jumps from the Citadel to Illium. He got there within four days, and used the remaining three to book an apartment, arrange with the NAPD to allow him to do his business unimpeded, and to scout out appropriate locations to run his operation. And now here he was.

His sniper rifle was a M-13 designated marksman rifle, otherwise nicknamed the 'Raptor'. Designed by the Systems Alliance's Lionhead Armoury as an answer to the turian's Flainus DMR. Specifically meant for use on the low gravity world of Amar in its earliest M-13X prototypes, the Alliance military adapted the weapon for use on all worlds with the M-13, combining rapidfire, semi-automatic capability with precision fire, auto-targetting systems. It was a highly deadly weapon, and had a modified scope for long-range targets, and could be filtered through thermal and night vision visual spectrums. His variant, the M-13B, was a further modified variant introduced by Cerberus Skunkworks during the Reaper War to his Nemeses that was able to introduce a single fire function that utilized the 'carnage rocket'-concept of shotguns by applying the same concept to an eezo-laced tungsten round. As such, the Raptor, with a flick of the firing mode, could be turned into a makeshift M-98 Widow rifle on demand. Expensive to manufacture, but very much worth it. He had acquired this from the corpse of a nemesis he killed during the Citadel Siege, and he had been using it ever since.

His rifle rested against the railing of the ceiling's roof, brought only in the event that he would need to defend himself. He also had a M-3 Predator sidearm, equipped with incendiary rounds, also for his own defense. He doubted he would need them, as he had been very careful in planning his mission out, but he was taking no chances today. He had made sure to bring everything: weapons, kinetic barriers, smoke and flashbang grenades...even a tactical cloak, fitted under his belt. A Spectre always overcompensated, and never made the mistake of undercompensating.

The salarian quickly reached the railing, bracing down on his knee as he brought his binoculars up from his belt and up to his beady, amphibian eyes. The hyper-heightened metabolism of salarians had its downfalls, largely in regards to their drastically shortened lifespan and increased nutitrional requirements, but one advantage of it was their enhanced precision and coordination. Salarians didn't need auto-targetting on weapons because their brains were able to receive and distribute information much faster than any human or asari could, allowing them to reach conclusions or decisions faster. This made salarians adept mathematicians, but it also made them lethal operators. In all his days working as a spectre, he had never missed a shot. Never failed to take down a target.

Salarian exactness was almost machine-like in its adaptibility.

As such, it took him no longer than a second to find his target. Checking his chronometer, he found he was right on time too. The Shepardist meeting was starting, and soon, the Good Samaritan would show their face. The man's mystique had puzzled those in the Spectre leadership and Illium law enforcement, who were unable to figure out where he had come from, what his intentions were or how he had so readily and easily taken over the Shepardist management.

For over a week, the Good Samaritan had been making rapid change that the Council, for all intents and purposes, was starting to find alarming. In just seven days, they had established a network of communication between their groups on Earth, Tuchanka, Rannoch and Illium, and now with their newly formed groups on Khar'Shan and Omega. Before 2186, Bau would have expressed shock at how the Shepardists had gained access to batarian space, given the isolationist nature of the Hegemony, but with the batarian empire finally collapsing under the weight of numerous slave rebellions, uprisings and revolts, it was no surprise that small cracks were beginning to appear, allowing the outside world to access batarian society with indemnity. Shepardist numbers had climbed from the hundreds on Illium to just under two thousand, which was a massive increase for a cult. The Good Samaritan was making leaps and bounds in leadership too: gone was the disorganized meanderings of a disassociated group of malcontents, squealing fanboys and impassioned survivors. In its place was a coordinated, hierarchial organization with a single goal, a single purpose, and a single leader. It wasn't hard to see why the Council was worried.

The last time a group did this...it started a post-Krogan Rebellions revolution through Inner Council Space, seized control of Omega, and started a series of rebellions and secessions that ultimately set the foundations for the Terminus Systems they know today. Aria T'Loak may have been the Ruler of Omega now, but the Tanculus cult had ultimately been the one to found the title itself. The Council couldn't allow something like that to happen again. The massacres, the slaughter, the mindless, nearly religious, crusades...the consequences were haunting to consider.

Shepard still hadn't stepped forward to comment on it, although Bau didn't blame him. If he had his own band of followers, he'd be hardpressed to acknowledge them as well. Why would a man looking for a life of peaceful tranquility want to be dragged into a world of self-indulgence and idolization? Of all the descriptions Bau could award the man, narcissistic wasn't one of them.

He waited a few more minutes for the Samaritan to show himself, and he wasn't disappointed. A door shot open from behind the stage, and the man of the hour stepped out from the proverbial shadows. The cap and basic attire he wore belied his stature and position in the group he led, making him seem almost...normal, admist all the abnormality he festered in his wake. The man these people were calling the Good Samaritan looked no different from the human man in the front row, or the one in the back, or the one in the middle. Perhaps that was the appeal of him...the veil of normality. The guise of familiarity. Sometimes, people didn't want a leader was larger than life. Sometimes...they wanted a mirror edge. It helped to have someone just like you affirm what you believed. To justify it.

That's what he understood from humans, anyway. Salarians didn't share the concept.

Continuing to peek through his binoculars, he watched as the Samaritan began his speech. With his long-range audio enhancement tool switched off, he wasn't able to hear what he was saying, but between the cheering of the crowd below him, and his animated gestures, it was obvious he was giving quite the speech. The two people behind him, ones he identified in the mission dossier forwarded to him as Conrad Verner and Jenna McLean, stood by and watched, looking far less interested in what the Samaritan had to say compared to the crowd. Something told Bau they weren't happy with the head change. Perhaps that was a visual clue.

_Possible coup? Unwanted takeover? Could possibly use that to fragment organization. Need to learn more. Can't do that from here._

He switched on his omni-tool's audio enhancement software, but all he could hear was more of the Samaritan's quasi-religious dogma and his group cheering him on. He wasn't going to gain anything of value by performing this continued observation. He needed something more concrete.

Letting a moment or two pass, he finally lowered his binoculars, his lips pursed as he thought about what to do next. He needed to gather more information on the Samaritan's rise to power, and he couldn't do so from observing him up here. So there was really only one alternative: infiltrate the Shepardist headquarters, find the Samaritan's room and see what he could find.

The timing couldn't be more perfect for it: while a vast majority, if not all, of the Shepardists were gathered outside to listen to the Samaritan speak, the building itself would be void of inhabitants, giving him a clear entry vector. He could go under cloak, use his omni-tool to hack the visitor registry of the building, find the room, investigate, then leave. A nice and clean operation, and without being spotted. If Bau had any particular skills he had transferred over from his time in the STG, it was stealth. This wouldn't take long. And at least then he'd have information to give to the Council.

Pocketing his binoculars in a spare pouch in his armor, he snatched up his rifle, holstered it and then made a quick exit, retrieving the tight wire he had attached to the side of the building and hooking it to the frontal hook on his chest. Making sure it was secured, he quickly abseiled down the side of the factory, reaching the bottom after at least two minutes of rappelling. Once there, he disconnected the wire and wrapped it back into his armor, before disappearing.

At top speed, it took him no less than nine minutes to reach the back of the Shepardist headquarters building. The large spire of a structure reached into the sky for almost 64 floors, the former Sonax Industries facility meaning a monolith of architecture that perfectly fit in with the rest of Nos Astra's bustling metropolis. The back door was guarded by a single ERCS guard, a human male without his helmet and a 'vape' in one hand, smoking trailing from his nostrils in thick flavoured plumes, while more smoke trailed from the glowing green device in his right hand. The man looked entirely bored, likely not even concentrating. ERCS' losses must have suffered huge losses during the war: now they were hiring incompetents. Just made Bau's job easier.

Opening his omni-tool and thinking on the spot, he knew using his cloak and running through the door would draw suspicion from the guard, who would no doubt investigate a self-opening door. Knocking him out or killing him would only alert the Shepardists to his presence, and ruin any further chances he could have of sneaking in undetected in the future, and possibly lead to the Samaritan moving shop. So he did the next best thing: impersonating his boss. With a voice modification filter and a simple hack, he had patched into ERCS' radio frequency in moments, issuing orders to the guard, "All guards, report to Checkpoint Bravo for reassignment. And by report, I mean now. If I find out you ditched this meeting, I'll have your ass for breakfast. Get up here...now."

The guard grumbled, taking one last inhale of his vape before pocketing it. He made a quick, disinterested reply back on his radio, before beating a quick retreat, rushing down the stairs, rounding a corner and vanishing from sight. Waiting a few seconds to ensure he didn't come back, Bau tapped his cloak and rushed the stairs. By the time he was in view of the surveillance cameras, he had vanished. The door opened, and he slid inside, as quiet as a  _bure._

Hacking the structure's mainframe wasn't hard: with the incompetency displayed by ERCS' handling of security here, it wasn't hard to see why. With just a few flicks of his basic hacking program, he was in, and quickly filing through the hundreds of occupants who were registered to live in the skyscraper. At least the Shepardists had done that much. Limiting the search parameters wasn't difficult, and soon he found a name listed in the Samaritan's name.

_Hmmm...seems even the registry has him listed by his pseudonym. You'd think he would have used his real name, or at least an alias. Perhaps he's smarter than I give him credit...use his nickname so he can't be tracked? Certainly a good way to confuse sneaky and nosey spectres._

He was in Room T47: Room T, floor 47. Without waiting any longer, he reached an elevator, quickly waving his omni-tool at the camera to scramble its footage, the code in his program quickly rewriting the footage to create the illusion that he wasn't there, when really he was just putting its current footage on a loop. Once inside, he disengaged his cloak to allow it time to recharge, and hit the button for the 47th floor. As the elevator slowly ascended, he took the time to appreciate the Nos Astra skyline whizzing by as he got higher and higher above ground level, the glass spine of the elevator allowing him an unrestricted view of the world around him. It was a stunning view, to be sure.

Soon, he was at the 47th floor, and activated his cloak moments before the doors parted. He darted through, pivoting to make sure nobody had seen the elevator arrive. The corridor, in fact, was completely empty, not a single person to be seen. Not willing to take chances, he kept his cloak on, but monitored its charge. He had at least another ten minutes of cloak left. Using that time, he wandered down the hallway, looking for room T47.

It took him no time at all to find it, the room practically at the end of the northeast part of the building. The door was obviously locked, but that wasn't going to stop Bau, and he quickly unlocked it with his hacking tool. Once he heard the click of the locks being demagnetized, he stepped through the door, waiting until it closed behind him to deactivate his cloak, the salarian simply appearing in a crackle of light and electricity, the effect like tearing a blanket off of him to reveal the person hidden underneath.

The room was pretty basic, and as such, was very small. He wasted no time in exploring the contents of the room, rummaging carefully through draws, sinks, bags, under his bed, under his bed sheets, in his cabinets, etc. Anywhere he could potentially hide information was searched thoroughly, but he was careful to make sure everything was placed back exactly where it belonged so as to not reveal his break-in. Within a minute of his search, he found a backpack leaned against the bed frame, and he rapidly unzipped and unpacked its contents, including a water canteen, some pills for headaches that he identified as dihydroergotamine, and other materials, including a disassembled pistol. Finally, he found some datapads, and glossed through them. What he found was...if there was a word for it, it would be trepidation. Curiousness and fear.

The Shepardist operation was far worse than they initially feared. What they knew about their missionary activities and scheming was only surface-level information: what ran under the cracks in their intelligence was far worse. Shepardist groups were being planted on Dekuuna, Kahje, Palaven, even Sur'Kesh. Areas most hit by the war: Darvug, Horizon, Aite, Eden Prime, Feros, Noveria, Sanctum, Anhur...all of them were labelled by the Samaritan as targets to spread their cult and faith. Efforts were being made to link up the new Shepardist cells on Rannoch and Khar'Shan to the larger whole, with numerous references to the 'Crusader' being mentioned. Whoever this Crusader was, it was the rallying cry for their movement. What he was seeing here was nothing less than a cult spreading like wildfire.

And it got worse. Large sums of credits were being moved through numerous volus bank accounts: some of it achieved legitimately...the rest of it stolen. The Samaritan apparently had many contacts on the Citadel, and cash was being used to purchase transport ships, skycars, food supplies...even investments in prefab colonial buildings used to start colonies. What possible use could the Shepardists have for that?

However, none of this would be considered a threat and would be summarily ignored if it wasn't for him skimming through the Samaritan's personal journal, which detailed his thoughts on arming the Shepardists on a limited scale. As he coined it, 'the Council will no doubt try to oppress us when our influence grows large enough, and when that time comes, we will need to defend ourselves to the best of our ability. We must start seeking new security measures, and I'm afraid ERCS just won't do. We need committed defenders of our faith. Those willing to fight and die for the Crusader's cause.' While nothing had been done about these thoughts yet, the purchasing of transport ships had him thinking: what if he's building a base of operations somewhere? And if he does...is that when the Shepardists will go militant?

And when they do...what will they do with that firepower? Nobody seeks weapons and ships without looking for a fight. The Samaritan's pretense of 'self defense' has been used multiple times throughout history. Security is a slippery slope: once you have the power, simply having it isn't enough. The Samaritan, the Shepardists, will want to use this power. And when they do...where will they strike?

Oh yes...this was  _far_ worse than any of them could have predicted. It was Tanculus all over again, except this time these people were using Commander Shepard as an excuse.

The fact the Samaritan was openly seeking out ex or current military members was also a red flag too. From what he could see here, he'd already acquired the attention of a group of disgruntled Alliance marine veterans who felt abandoned by their government, and were looking to throw their lot in by joining a cult dedicated to their hero. And if the Samaritan's own musings were to be believed...he'd even recruited a few former krogan reformists!

Krogan! Yes, this was disturbing news indeed. The Council needed to be informed, as soon as possible. Something had to be done about this.

This was no longer just harmless hero worship. These were detailed preparations to carry out militant takeovers. Whoever this Samaritan was...he wasn't just here to hold a fanboy convention. He was out for blood, and whether the Shepardists knew it or not, they were being used for a dishonorable purpose. The fact that the human was frequently mentioning an apparent past in the military, an Alliance rehabilitation facility on Earth, his need to exalt Shepard (who he now identified as the Crusader, confirming the focus of the term's use), and the fact he could barely remember things.

All the warning signs of a psychopath.

Shaking his head, he wandered if perhaps he should use this time to eliminate the Samaritan himself. A Spectre's mandate was to protect the galaxy, and with the galaxy itself in such a vulnerable state just a year on from a genocidal war of epic proportions, the time was ripe for people like this to take advantage and wreak havoc. These kinds of people were the next Saren or Tanculus, just waiting for their time to flourish. It was the job of Spectres to put them down and preserve society. To protect the innocent from the tyrannical despots who would have their moment of infamy.

Bau had the opportunity. He could stop this. End the Samaritan before this went any further. He had the means.

But in the end, he remembered his orders. The Spectres weren't what they once were: they had a lot more accountability now. The actions of traitors like Arterius and Vasir had forced the Council to reevaluate how much power they gave to their shadow operatives, and that's why OPSCOM existed. Bau himself was a member of the big five, and would be seen as a hypocrite if he violated the values of something he helped to establish. No matter how much he might dislike it, people such as Saren couldn't be allowed to act as they did again. Spectres could no longer kill who they wished, act as they wanted, or do as they did without answering for it.

Bau had his orders. Monitor and investigate. His orders did not involve assassination, and he certainly wasn't authorized to kill the Samaritan. The Council was in enough trouble as it was for covering up the Reaper threat and for the asari's violation of the Citadel Conventions: a spectre assassinating a 'harmless cult leader' would be seen as another smear on the record. No, the Council would want this done clandestinely, and would likely have the STG make the hit so they could have full deniability.

Bau understood it, and hated it. But in the end...orders were orders. At least somebody would eventually take the Samaritan out, especially if the Council saw the implications of the information he had just read.

Quickly syncing up his omni-tool with the datapads, he downloaded every gigabyte of information that he had. Once that was done, he shut them down and put everything back in the bag, zipped it back up and placed it next to the bed in the exact spot he had found it. With no trace left of his presence in the apartment, Bau made his exit, locking the door behind him, before disappearing under cloak once more.

The Samaritan was readying for something. And it needed to be stopped before it got out of control.

* * *

 _Afterlife, Dyuko District, Omega - December 27, 2187 - Twelve minutes later_.

"Perhaps you'll remember that the next time you break the one rule. Bray, get her out of here. And make sure not to get blood on my couch."

Aria T'Loak watched with a sneer as the gasping form of a quivering human female coughed and gagged on the ground infront of her, snivelling like a coward. The woman's brown hair was a mess, looking as unkept as Omega's grimy walls, with stray tangles of dried semen inbetween her hair. Her face was red and raw from rubbing, eyes bloodshot and dilated. Half her 'shirt' was torn, with one bra strap hanging loosely down her arm. The woman generally looked unclean, like she hadn't washed in months. She excessively drooled across the ground, coughing up parts of a broken tooth from when Aria had strangled her with biotics. Aria's sneer was of revulsion.

_What do you get when you mix a prostitute and red sand? This sack of shit._

On Omega, there was one simple rule. Don't fuck with Aria. It was simpler than Omega deserved, and it was a rule many didn't have a problem following. Nobody wanted to waste their time picking a fight with an ex-asari commando who defeated a krogan warlord in hand-to-hand combat, got kicked off the station by a brilliant Cerberus general only to recapture it and commanded a formidable mercenary force?

Well...nobody was smart. Unfortunately, the problem with dealing with Aria was that sometimes, you had idiots like these. Aria had agreed to proceed this bitch (forget her name) with some red sand, as the little flower was addicted to it. Unfortunately, this little blossom decided she was going to exploit Aria's generosity and get greedy, and took more than she was allowed. She even thought she'd get away with it, that Aria wouldn't notice. What adorable naivete.

Well, the little skank was getting what she deserved now. Rounded up and brought before Aria, she begged for her life, as they always do. Always snivelling and crying and wheezing. Trying to weaponize sympathy. When would they learn that she didn't fucking care? This little whore stole from her, and was going to pay for her ungratefulness. Aria didn't give two shits as to what happened after that.

"Emily," Aria clicked her fingers, the asari draping her right arm over the side of the couch as she got snuggled in, "Come here."

So focused on the grisly sight of Aria taking out the trash, Emily, one of Afterlife's human female dancers, clad in scantily revealing clothing designed to leave as little skin covered as possible, finally snapped out of her terror and wandered over to Aria. She liked Emily: long flowing blonde hair, supple red lips, coffee-brown skin...she was like silk, her laugh was cute, and her innocence was a cover for the woman's experience and intelligence. She was the only whore Aria had actually come to respect. A woman who can think for herself, could provide surprising insight and didn't immediately piss Aria off. A hard bargain.

The woman dropped herself onto the couch next to Aria, where she allowed the pirate queen's arm to wrap around her shoulders and pull her in closer. The woman did not resist, Aria smirking wickedly, "Dear, dear, Emily. You're the only one who seems to follow the one rule. Why can't all of these..." she sent a rough kick flying into the twitching woman's stomach, sending her rolling onto her back, rasping and gasping as more blood and spittle soared from her mouth, dribble slipping down her chin, "...filth, be as loyal as you. Stealing from me, exploiting my charity...at least you're smart enough not to fuck with me. Apparently these people need a lesson taught to them."

"Please," the woman begged, her voice barely heard over the thumping, heavy bass of Afterlife's pulverizing musical allotment. The pink and purple lights of the cylindrical electronic holo tower in the middle of the club were raining down on them, making her face bruised and tattered face look like a blinding parody of a lighting globe, "...I didn't have a choice, I needed it...please, I won't do it again..."

Aria just shook her head, "We're  _long_ past apologies. We all pay for our mistakes. You're no exception," with a clinical sigh, waving over her batarian adjutant standing quietly in the corner and watching without a word of complaint. The batarian was clad in steel-grey armor, the Omega insignia stamped on his shoulder pads and right breast: a recent addition Aria had made to her men after introducing an official security force to the station. While Walter Pike's Talons had been given official law enforcement duties, she made sure the Omega populace remembered who really ruled the station. In a single step, he was at her side, his M-76 Revenant LMG held quietly in his grip, "Bray, get this filth off my station. Don't care how you do it. Incinerator or airlock. You pick."

If the woman's eyes could widen any further from fear, they just did. The veins in her neck looked about ready to pop, and Aria was pretty sure she could see some of the nerves in the woman's eyes pop as red liquid began to fill her sclera, making her already bloodshot eyes look even more hellish, "Oh my god...please no, please! I'll change, I promise!"

"Right away Aria," Bray responded, motioning for two of Aria's other men, a turian wielding a M-4 Shuriken SMG and another batarian wielding a M-8 Avenger assault rifle, to pick the girl up and follow him. She weakly struggled as the turian and batarian lifted her to her feet, not even waiting for her to be properly standing before they began dragging her away, Bray leading them down the stairs. The woman finally managed the effort to scream desperately, but it was too late: Aria had stopped caring, the fingers of her right arm reaching up to stroke the hair of the dancer draped over her.

Her careless smile dissipated, adopting a grim thin line, "I really do tire of having to take out the trash so often. Having to repeat these lessons grows tiresome. Hopefully by disposing of that rat through Afterlife's front door, I will be giving people a public example of my patience and its limits."

Emily didn't bother with an answer, simply nodding along to Aria's statements. Aria knew this wasn't her demonstrating dim intelligence: quite the opposite. Some situations required silence and simple acknowledgement, and Emily understood this quite well. Her fastidious attention to warding off Aria's antipathy was just another sample case of why Omega's ruler preferred Emily's company in comparison to the other dancers in the club she called her throne. The other dancers were too haughty and vainglorious for people of their profession, their hubris denoted from delusion. Emily understood what her place was, but she also had a level of mental acuity that the other employees here lacked.

For that...Emily would always be her favourite.

Life had largely returned to normal for Aria T'Loak and her kingdom. Much of the taint from Cerberus' occupation of the station during the Reaper War had been removed, and the remaining Cerberus POWs captured after Petrovsky's surrender either killed by the Crucible and their bodies flushed into the cold of space, or handed over into Council/Alliance custody. Petrovsky was rotting away in an Alliance military prison somewhere, the adjutants were wiped out, and the status quo had returned in full. But, as much as she hated to admit it, a few things had changed irremediably.

Before Petrovsky ousted her in late 2185, Aria T'Loak ruled Omega with an iron fist. Everybody feared her, nobody dared challenge her and nobody crossed her. Aria T'Loak had earned her reputation: she was the fourth (perhaps now the sixth as well, if Petrovsky was to be counted) Ruler of Omega, having succeeded the station's previous incumbent, Khurdok Chaggu, known to history now as the 'Patriarch', and as her trophy. She had brought a fearsome krogan warlord to his knees, turned his own men against him, and then bought him in a duel that lasted three hours, one on one, in this very room. It was half the reason she had chosen to establish her throne here: a constant reminder of the hardest fight in her life, and her greatest personal victory. She had been nothing on the outside: just another of Afterlife's dancers, a thoughtless, superficial whore with tits and a twat, and Chaggu had never seen her coming. Her previous service as an asari commando, and her brief tenure with the now defunct all-asari Thessian Rangers mercenary band, was carefully hidden under a faux-dancer veneer, and he noticed the lie too late to stop it. She'd named him 'Patriarch' to mock him: asari didn't have gender, so she named him after a male version of an asari matriarch, and a term that didn't exist in Siari. She'd allowed him life's simple pleasures: but he would always be the proud warlord who got defeated by a little asari dancer.

Then, in late 2185, her latest contender came along: General Oleg Petrovsky, and he brought with him a colossal army. 40,000 troops with mech and armoured support, backed by a large fleet spearheaded by his flagship, the CAW  _Elbrus_ , a dreadnought. When he first arrived, Omega's key players (the Blood Pack, Eclipse and Blue Suns) had already rallied again in an attempt to kill her, only for adjutants to arrive and slaughter them wholesale. Petrovsky then arrived, successfully manipulating her into thinking he was here to help deal with escaped Cerberus experiments. Once he was on the station...it was over.

The First War for Omega lasted only a few days, but Cerberus, with barely any casualties, captured her station, and she was exiled with what few men she had left. Petrovsky's only mistake, of course. Because a year later, at the height of the Reaper War, she came back, with a UGC fleet led by Commander Shepard at her back, and after a tough couple of weeks, battled Cerberus into surrender. And just like her battle with the Patriarch, she confronted Petrovsky on this very spot, only for Shepard to convince her to let him go.

She hadn't planned to keep a trophy this time. Petrovsky should be thanking Shepard for his life.

A year after her return, and life was returning to normal. Cerberus' stink was being removed piece by piece: every logo, every propaganda poster, every single recovered D-09 Atlas mech. Omega was scoured clean, wiping away any trace of evidence that the organization was ever here.

Unfortunately, it wouldn't be enough to save her station from change. The Talons, a powerful drug cartel turned resistance force, had been fighting Cerberus for the entirety of its eight month occupation of the station, and were not willing to go away. Nyreen Kandros, a female turian ex-special forces operative who had briefly been Aria's lover, had taken over the Talons and changed them into a disciplined military force. But with Nyreen killed during the liberation, her second-in-command, Walter Pike, was left in control, and he was a staunch believer in her goals and morals. As such, the Talons had immediately insisted on imposing a proper security force, and with her own syndicate unable to effectuate her influence without them, she was forced to comply.

The first of many concessions she would have to make.

Omega was changing. Pike had already split numerous districts into safe zones, with Talon patrols doubled and their numbers increasing. Pike's next concession would be to force Aria T'Loak to bar the Blue Suns from continuing their protection racket with the Gozu district. Aria had initially rejected the proposal, but Pike had simply gone ahead and conquered the district anyway, the superior Talon firepower easily overwhelming and pushing the Blue Suns out. The Talons, having commandeered much of Cerberus' leftover equipment from the war, were in possession of warfighting weaponry. Mechs, missile defense systems, reconfigured and modified SPARTAN-class armor, tanks...you name it, the Talons have it. And Pike held no qualms about letting Aria know he would use it if he deemed it necessary. So when the Blue Suns asked for Aria to deal with it, she had the Blue Suns commander brought to her and killed him herself, and had the body mailed straight to Pike.

It was her way of saying: you win, but don't think I'll be a pushover. A subtle warning against Pike attempting a takeover. It was heard loud and clear, and the Talons made no attempts to subvert her power, promising to deal with any would-be successors while keeping out of her more lucrative and dirty business practices. After all, the Talons were a clean organization now. Their drug smuggling days were over.

The next change was the political atmosphere. The Terminus Systems were no longer the festering hive of criminal enterprises and scum it used to be. The Reaper War had essentially dissolved most borders, and as such, the Council was slowly creeping its way back into its former territory. With both sides unwilling and unable to wage war large scale conflicts for a while, they remained clear of each other. Hierarchy and Alliance warships were a common sight at Omega, and many of Afterlife's more shady and slimy customers gave the club a wide berth when a ship's crew or marine contingent decided to drop by for a drink. Nobody was willing to pick a fight with trained soldiers, especially not with Aria's watchful gaze.

An even more common occurrance was quarian ships. The Perseus Veil was practically in the neighbourhood with Omega, so quarian warships and trading vessels made sure to make use of the station's facilities. In the past, the Blood Pack or Blue Suns would think nothing of preying on Migrant Fleet vessels, as they rarely staffed by quarian marines, and their pitiful defenses made them easy targets. But with the Treaty of Rannoch, those same criminals gave such ships a wide berth now. More often than not, they came staffed by geth, and nobody was stupid enough to try and intimidate a machine.

So yes...Omega had changed. While Aria still held power, it was becoming more and more of a figurehead. Pike had the men and forces to do what he wanted, military sabbaticals were becoming more and more common on the station, and her own syndicate was still struggling to rebuild itself, with more recruits being sweeped up by the Talons. Aria felt like they were yanking her chain at this point. All she could do was keep up the facade of wielding the power. Pike wouldn't care so long as she didn't interfere with his operations. It was a relationship held together only by their joint respect for the late Nyreen Kandros and her legacy.

"Aria!" came the familiar voice of Afterlife's human bouncer, snapping her away from her thoughts. She pursed her lips angrily, before turning away from Emily, the hand stroking her hair falling back to the side of the couch as she lazily pivoted her head to face the intruder upon her time. The human rushed up to her, out of breath and looking desperate to get her attention. Aria immediately noticed that he appeared to have a bruised right and left eye, and he had a few small cuts along his face that were trickling small amounts of blood, "Aria!"

"I heard you the first time, Beckett," Aria drawled, eyes scything through the bouncer's skull. Her glare was designed to let him know she was not happy about the interruption, and that what he had to say better be worth her time, "I certainly hope you've got something important to say. You look like you've gotten into a barfight."

"Aria..." he began, wheezing nasally as it sounded like he was about to cough up flem, "...there's a...crowd building up outside. They came out of nowhere. I told them to back off! But they just kept coming! And then one of them started beating up, calling me a 'servant of criminality!' They kept demanding to see you. I...I don't know what's going on! They keep shouting about a...Crusader!"

Aria rolled her eyes, removing her arm from under Emily before standing up, crossing her arms as she turned to look over Afterlife's dance floor. The holographic image of an asari stripper dancing, larger than life, pulsated brightly, with numerous real life asari and human dancers sliding around their polls in tune to the beat as many admirers of the male variety watched with avid attention below. She narrowed her eyes angrily.  _Must be the local Shepardist group. They are quickly becoming a thorn in my side._

The Shepardists were another of the new changes introduced to Omega's urban sprawl. The group of Shepard fanboys and cultists had made a home for themselves in Omega's Kima district. Luckily for them, they kept to themselves, staying out of Aria's business and steering clear of the Talons. As of a couple of days ago however, the group had expanded in influence, and now took every opportunity they could do to be a large pain in the ass. Demonstrations, harassing her convoys, and shouting their nonsense where they could be heard. They had officially replaced the Mad Prophet as the most annoying blowhard on Omega.

And now apparently they were getting bold.  _Assaulting one of my bouncers? They're toeing a line. Its clear they're forgetting the one rule, and I think they need a personal reminder._

"Gavorn," she snapped, immediately noticing the turian stiffen up at the sound of his name, "Gather some men, about five or seven and meet me at the entrance. We've got a pest problem and we need to do some control," she gritted her teeth for a second, before adding her last sentence in a grated tone, "And get in contact with Pike...politely  _ask_ him if he can spare a squad of his troops to come and help me clear these Shepardists out."

She turned to Emily, smiling briefly, "Business. We'll continue this later." Wiping the smile from her face, she spared Emily a small glance before turning and heading back down to the ground floor, two of her mercs, an asari and human, close behind her. She didn't bother grabbing a weapon, as her biotics would be more than enough, and simply marched through the Afterlife main club before reaching the main doors and walking down the small corridor. She ignored the rabble of three drunk batarians leering at her, the men stumbling over each other and slurring so badly she didn't bother giving them any attention.

The entrance slid open with a whirring click, the shield against the roaring crowd outside parting away to welcome the abhorrent cultist claptrap through the door to assault her eardrums.

The crowd was far larger than she had initially expected. At least two score of Shepardists were standing at the entrance, their numbers blocking and clogging the stairwell. Their horde consisted of a miscellany of different species: humans, asari, turians, salarians, batarians, krogan...even hanar, a smidgen of elcor, and even the odd quarian. They waved signs up in the air, while one particular human had her back to Aria, addressing the crowd with her omni-tool held up to her face, amplifying her voice. She was clearly the leader of the group, and thus the person Aria wanted to address.

With a growl, she realized that the crowd's massive cacophony was going to make it nearly impossible for them to hear her. Thus, she needed to grab their attention. That would be easy enough. Clenching her fists, she summoned the biotic powers that were so natural to her, body wrapped in a cobalt blue glow, oscillating tendrils of element zero-induced telekinesis rolling down her frame. Her eyes turned into orbs of enrapturing blue phosphorescence, making her seem like a mix between a demonic entity and an angelic arbiter. As easy as breathing, she rose her fingers and clicked them. As a result, two tendrils of dark energy surged through her fingertips and clapped together loudly, the reaction creating a spark of ignition. The explosive display of power was enough to draw looks, and soon, the entire crowd fell silent, eyes turning to the vibrating, ultramarine pirate queen standing at the entrance.

The Shepardist announcer they had been chanting with slowly turned around to see what her followers were looking at, and found the asari flanked by her two guards waiting for her. There was a coruscate of perturbation in her eyes for a nanosecond, but it slowly gave way to uneasy confidence, fortified by her turning to face her fully, straightening her shirt and smiling ambivalently, "Aria T'Loak, welcome! We've been awaiting your arrival! We've been trying to get an audience granted with you!"

Aria decided she already didn't like this human. Her derivative reliance on ersatz conviction, coupled with the fact she was currently, and possibly unknowingly, in the process of gaining her ire, made sure that this human, as far as she was concerned, was enjoying a rapidly shortening lifespan. Her voice oozed sweetness, but was laced with venomous intent, as she thought of tearing her apart with a warp field, "Have you now? What part of that included assaulting my bouncer?"

The human looked to hesitate for a second, before laughing awkwardly, "Ah...well, he was very rude! My batarian friend here," she motioned to a rather bulky looking batarian behind her, who was standing behind her like a lost dog, and snarling just like a rabid one, "got a little carried away, I'll admit, but he had it coming! He was calling us nutjobs and wackadoodles! Oghenk just lost his temper."

 _Probably because you_ _ **are**_ _nutjobs and wackadoodles. Unbelievable. The nerve on these people to assault one of mine._ She tried to reply with as measured a tone as possible, but it was getting increasingly more difficult. Her fists clenched and unclenched as she responded, "It appears my bouncer was a little  _annoyed_  with the fact forty or so... _people_...have turned up and clogged the entrance to  _my_ night club. Perhaps you'd like to explain yourselves."

The woman was all too happy to do so, clapping her hands together in one full swoop before clasping them together with glee, "Of course! We, as you probably already know, are the Shepardists! Most of all, we are the voice of the Crusader!"

Aria just frowned, "The Crusader?"

The woman returned with her own frown, but it quickly gave way to a warm smile again. It was a smile was quickly wishing to tear off her face, "Oh, right. The Crusader is the title we've given to Commander Shepard! The Good Samaritan calls him the 'Crusader' because he, like the eponymous crusaders of medieval Earth history, launched a great campaign to reclaim the homeland and bring peace to the galaxy! He has imbued us with the task of spreading the word of our Savior, and bringing his truth to this station! Omega is in urgent need of enlightenment, and what better way to do so then spreading his justice and word at the headquarters of Omega's infamous pirate queen! Everybody knows that you fought by the Crusader's side during the war to reclaim this station from Cerberus!"

Aria inwardly sighed, her already temperamental attitude towards this nonsense beginning to reach boiling point.  _So now Shepard has an army of sycophants running around, running errands for him and, to top it off, harassing me. I knew Shepard never liked me, but sending his little minions to irritate me and waste my time seems excessive, even for him. Labelling himself with titles like 'Crusader' and 'Savior' and 'Good Samaritan' sounds unbelievably egotistical of him. Perhaps retirement is beginining to get to his head. I'd go insane to if I had to spend the rest of my days marooned on some planet._

Aria, pretending to understand, chuckled sharply. Perhaps a bit too sharply, as the batarian named Oghenk shot her a dirty look. She pretended to not notice it, more for his sake than her own.  _I might kill him by accident._ "Ah yes...my memory is returning. Yes, Shepard fought by  _my_ side during the war for Omega. We were  _great friends_."

_More like he was in an alliance with convenience with me, and he and Nyreen got along just fine in their joint dislike of my regime and ideology. Those two bounced off each other like lovers. All moral high horses and protecting civilians. But sure, I'll pretend to be Shepard's buddy if it means these people will get off my proverbial lawn._

The woman, smarter than she initially seemed, picked up on the sarcastic drawl in Aria's tone, and cocked her head with a frown of discountenance, "Your tone suggests you and the Crusader did not get along. Have we been mislead in terms of your relationship with the Crusader?"

 _I'm really starting to get sick of that word._ The doors behind her opened at that moment, but she didn't need to turn to know that it was Gavorn turning up with the backup she had requested. The turian was at her side in an instant, and the clicks of weapons could be heard as they were primed, her mercs spreading out to cover the doorway, braced for a possible stampede. Aria just glared back at the woman, "Perhaps you have, but I don't care.  _Shepard_ and I fought together because it was a convenience. He didn't like me, and I only enlisted his help because I have a begrudging respect for him. Now if you'd like-"

An elcor, voice as slow and grating as the rest of his species, cut her off, "With profound anger: Aria T'Loak doesn't like the Crusader. The Crusader doesn't like Aria T'Loak."

A turian beside him, a female, joined her voice with the nameless elcor's, "He's right! T'Loak is a crime lord! She runs a criminal syndicate! She extorts and uses people! You didn't see it before, but I did! I watched some of her men dragging a drug addict from her club! I followed them, and I watched them put a bullet in her head before flushing her body out an airlock! That's the kind of person," she shoved a finger in Aria's direction, "she is! The Crusader would never associate himself with  _scum_ like this!"

_Bold attitude, girl. I like it. Almost reminds me of Nyreen. I think I'll kill you last._

Many voices joined the turian's and elcor's, and it threatened to turn into an bedlam. In one swift move of her arm through the air, the woman silenced the group, and the voices died down until her voice was the only one still talking, aside from the odd whisper. The woman turned back to Aria, her smile gone and replaced with a skeptical frown, "Is this true?"

She just laughed half-heartedly, uncrossing her arms and walking the steps one by one until she stood right infront of the woman in question, " _Yes._ And you know what? That's my business. I don't enjoy when people fuck with me, piss me off or try to undercross me. That drug addict crossed me, and she paid the price for it. How I run my syndicate, and this station, is none of your business. Now I  _suggest_ you leave."

Oghenk, his putrid breath an unwelcome intrusion upon her nostrils, made his presence felt, shoving the woman aside as he got right up in Aria's face, towering over her by a full head. She met his four eyes equally, and didn't back down, even as he excoriated, "If the Crusader was here, he would kill you. Gloria believes you could be saved, but you don't want to be saved. Your kind revel in the misery of others. I think you should be ended."

"As do I!" came the female turian again.

Aria just laughed, shaking her head, "Careful, blink. You're dangerously close to breaking Omega's one rule."

Her men tensed up at her words, hands tightening their grips on their assault weapons and motioning orders to each other, bracing for violence. Aria still didn't back down, but neither did Oghenk, and she was really starting to hate the stench of his breath wafting onto her face. She turned to the woman, addressing her as she was obviously the leader of the entire congregation, "Tell your attack dog to back down, and for your group to leave immediately. I will not ask again. Whatever game you're playing, it ends now. And tell Shepard to go  _fuck_ himself."  _Ah, that'll piss 'em off. And hopefully Shepard will get the damn hint._

Oghenk visibly tensed at hearing that last part, and the woman, Gloria, wasn't happy either, any semblance of her cheery demeanour ebbing away to be replaced with cold hatred. She stepped forward until she was right in Aria's face, her look one of utter contempt, "You will  _pay_ for your sins, Aria T'Loak. The Crusader will bring his justice upon you, and you will  _pay_. With  _blood_."

"Oh darling," Aria replied with acidic sweetness, reaching up to stroke the underside of Gloria's chin. The woman didn't pull back or flinch, which would prove to be a mistake, and her last, "Its not  _my_  blood I'll be paying with, skank."

In a flash, her gentle caress turned into a tight grip around Gloria's throat, and before either person could blink, she summoned enough biotic energy to roughly pivot her hand to the side. A sonorous crack was heard by the entire crowd, and Gloria's lifeless body toppled to the ground in a heap, eyes wide in shock, and hair tumbled around her shoulders. Aria didn't so much as spare her deceased form a glance, already turning back to look back at Oghenk, who had a look of rage in his face, "Are you next, asshole?"

In that moment...he decided he was. He swung at her with a devastating right hook that would have sent anyone else ragdolling onto the floor in one hit. But Aria ducked under his arm with lethargic blandness, almost as if she was in a trance and going through the motions. As his arm sailed by harmlessly, she came back up with her own left hook, this one wrapped in reinforced liquid fire. She felt her fist impact his unarmoured lower rib with a crunch, air evacuating the lungs of her opponent explosively as his rib was decimated from the impact of her fist. As he doubled back, she channelled all her energy into her right hand, and sneered.

_Enough fucking games. Class is in session again, you piece of shit._

And just like that, she sent a warp careening into his body. His body shuddered rapidly like it was being impacted by a machine gun burst, the warp field tearing apart his body mercilessly and methodically. She then released his body, letting the batarian behemoth fall to the ground and lie there, palpitating like somebody having a seizure, dots and flashes of purple light occasionally erupting from him as the traces of her dark energy attack surged through him and dismantled him piece by piece. A few seconds later, he gave a final gasp, and then stopped moving altogether. Thick, coagulated red blood poured from his eyes, mouth, ears and even from between his legs, forming thick pools on the ground, a testament to the reaction between a warp field and the physiology of an organic body. It wasn't pretty.

A pregnant pause is what followed her blatant murder of the group's two leading elements, the group of forty (now down to thirty-eight) watched the corpses of Gloria and Oghenk with horrified astonishment. Aria glared at them all, her men having long since raised their weapons at Gavorn's command, weapons trained on the crowd in case they decided to retaliate.

Aria, believing her point made, turned to leave, and was halfway up the stairs, Gavorn and his men turning to follow, when the female turian spoke again, "Murderer!  _MURDERER!_ The Crusader will demand  _JUSTICE_!"

Aria could hardly believe what happened next. Anybody else, after seeing her display of power and how she could effortlessly kill a powerful individual with just a flick of her wrist, would have run away, but instead, these people, who had no discernable armaments, decided to  _charge_ eight well armed men, and a biotic.

But here it was: the elcor couldn't run, obviously, so they hung back, but the rest roared primally like wild animals as they spewed forth, their crowd turning into a furious mob as they stormed towards Afterlife with the intent of lynching Aria. The asari watched as her men turned back around in preparation to disperse them. One of them, near the front, weren't so lucky, and he was overrun as six people, including a krogan, ganged up on the human and tackled them to the ground, disappearing under a flow of people. Seconds later, followed by a loud scream of pain, Aria watched as the krogan lifted a severed arm into the air, stringy pieces of sinew and flesh hanging from the exit point, before he tore the assault rifle from the grip of his fingers. The man's screams as the mob killed him were petrifying, even to Aria. She was shocked at the sheer brutality of these people. The...s _avagery_.

_What kind of fucking fanboy army has Shepard created? I didn't know he supported this shit!_

"Gun these animals down!" Aria barked, using her biotics to backhand a careering quarian male who was practically screeching at her. Gavorn, who was on her left, lowered his shotgun and blew a hole through the quarian's mask, killing him instantly, "Don't discriminate! Kill them until they disperse!"

Another one of her men cried out as he was shot underneath the armpit, the armed krogan Shepardist using his commandeered weapon to return fire. Aria's guards didn't waste anymore time, and began to fire indiscriminately into the crowd. Rapports and staccato beats of gunfire sounded throughout the Dyuko district as uninvolved, nearby denizens rushed for safety from the ensuing gunfight. Bodies flopped forward as high-velocity rounds tore into their unprotected flesh, kinetic slugs tearing off skin, muscle, bone, and even bits of cartiledge. The female turian from before had her head blown open from one guard, while an asari had a bullet pierce one cheek and penetrate the other. She stumbled in a gaze, entering shock, before another shot pierced her forehead and blew her brains out through the back, sending her body tumbling back down the steps.

It was a carnal slaughterhouse. Bodies upon bodies piled up quickly, but they were gradually getting closer to the entrance, and her men only had so much space to fall back on before they'd have to retreat into Afterlife. And that krogan was proving to be a real pain: no matter how many shots were poured into him, he kept coming back, and Aria was beginning to see early warning signs of a blood rage coming on, his eyes becoming unfocused, veins popping through his neck and his war cries devolving into growls and barking. Soon, he would charge, and Aria knew her men were not prepared for that. She needed to finish that.

With a great deal of focus and a high amount of concentration, she let her body wreathe in the cold of her dark energy powers once more, this time utilizing them to fall a rapidly expanding ball inbetween her hands. After a few seconds, the ball was larger than her torso, and without waiting any longer, she hurled it straight at her krogan adversary.

The singularity impacted the krogan center mass, just as he was preparing to charge. His firing went wide and impacted the wall harmlessly. He fired a few more bullets, but they were caught in the gravitational wall of Aria's biotic imitation of a black hole, and began to whizz around in circles. The krogan was unlucky enough to find himself lifted into the direct path of the circling bullets, and they hit him in the back. Roaring in pain, he squirmed and tried to wrench himself free, but failed. With a disdainful scowl, she hurled a warp field at the breach, and watched the explosion consume the krogan in bright light, and knock the remainder of the Shepardist mob to the ground, as well as her own men, to the ground from the thunder clap shockwave.

Aria, having braced for the blast, was the only one standing, and she quickly turned to what remained of the crowd: a total of 14 people. With a grunt, she pointed directly at the nearest Shepardist, a salarian, and made sure her stance was clear, "You can continue to fling yourself at me and my men and get hosed down like the animals you are, or you can fuck off back to your hideout and tell the Samaritan or the Crusader or whatever the fuck you choose to call him and tell him to stay out of my business. Now go...before I decide to have the rest of you killed."

The remaining Shepardists, seeing the futility of their position, beat a hasty retreat, turning and running back down the district's downtown area, and quickly disappeared from sight, leaving a bloody reminder of their defiance. Blood and viscera and gore splattered the floor all around the entrance, with the stray bullet impact tinting the floor. Bodies were piled up on the steps, and Gloria and Oghenk's body was left forgotten amidst the ruckus. Aria snorted at the stench.

She swiftly turned to Gavorn, annoyed, "Where the fuck were those men I asked Pike for?"

Gavorn sighed, rubbing his face, "Pike told us he wasn't sending any. Told us this was our business, and it had nothing to do with him. That he wasn't going to potentially sacrifice Talon lives for us."

Her anger simmering down once she realized it wasn't Gavorn's fault, she took one more look at the wholesale butchery that had occurred at Afterlife's front door.  _Yeah, well if he had sent me the men I asked for, this wouldn't have happened. They probably would have seen they were outnumbered and withdrawn. Instead...well, its his own fucking fault. These people made the mistake of pissing me off. Now they've learnt not to bite the hand that feeds them._

Shaking her head, she waved at the tower of cadavers, "Gavorn, have you and your men clean this shit up. Find Bray if you can and get him to help, he should be done with that whore now. I'll be in my apartment...dealing with business."

_Namely...giving Shepard a call and finding out what the fuck he thinks he's playing at. That pious piece of shit better have a good excuse for this or I will come over to Rannoch myself and turn his little quarian plaything into a pinball until he gives me a good enough answer._

With that, Aria stormed back into Afterlife, while her men set about the grim task of cleaning up a hecatomb.

* * *

 _Shepard Residence, Rannoch - December 27, 2187 - Five minutes later_.

The housewarming party was really entering full swing now. Over the period of three and a half hours, the two groups of  _Normandy_ crew members had begun to merge together, eventually intermixing and spreading across multiple rooms of the house's first floor and outdoor areas. Music was played, talking and laughter turned into shouting and whooping. Games were played too: Jacob, in a drunken stupor, had challenged Zaeed to a wrestling match, and it wasn't long before many others chose to partake. Zaeed beat Jacob without really trying, but with James, the two had to call it off after a while because neither was making progress. Shepard defeated Zaeed, Shepard defeated Garrus (with some effort), and Wrex defeated Shepard. Wrex and Grunt became a tie, but Javik finally defeated Wrex. With Javik the arm wrestling champion (aside from Ashley and Jack starting up their own), interests shifted to other forms of entertainment.

James started a drinking competition to see who could down the most shots. Joker, Garrus, Jack, Ashley, Zaeed, Grunt and Javik decided to partake, with Shepard only taking a few shots before folding (he could probably beat all of them thanks to his cybernetics filtering out alcohol in his system, but given they weren't as effective as they used to be, and he had promised Tali that neither of them would get drunk so they could clean up afterwards, he decided to stay out of it). And so the drinking competition continued, and before one knew it, Javik was engaging in a game of insults with Zaeed, who was more than happy to reply in kind, joined later by Jack.

Miranda, Liara and Samara, ever the sensible ones, had stayed clear of alcohol and the other games they played, instead choosing to chat with EDI over some things. Shepard hadn't really paid much attention to their conversation, so he didn't really figure out the specifics.

The important thing to Shepard was that everybody was having fun, and they weren't trashing his house. Wrex and Grunt knew that if they got too drunk they'd have to go outside (drunken krogan are hardly a good thing to have inside an intact home), and Zaeed was repeatedly refused access to the  _Normandy_ so he could grab Jessie, his favourite rifle. Jack was told, quite unequivocally, that if she wanted to use her biotics, she was to go outside, and put at least a kilometer between her and the house. Kasumi was nowhere to be seen, and Shepard had no doubt she was probably snooping around somewhere, as was typical of her. That thief really couldn't help her curiosity. Tali, of course, was too busy trying to tell Jack that she, in fact, did not 'want to talk about her tattoo' and that she 'regretted it very much.' Of course, Shepard knew that wasn't true. Tali quite liked it actually, but she would never admit that to Jack.

Overall, as Shepard sat at his kitchen bench, watching Zaeed and Javik's verbal sparring match continue, grinning away like an idiot, he believed that it wasn't a bad turn out. His team were grown adults, and they knew their limits. After the party on the Citadel during the war, he'd come to accept that so long as they didn't get too drunk, they'd all be fine. He hadn't had this much fun since the party in question, actually.

 _I can actually forget about all my problems and just bask in our victory. A year onwards, and it still hasn't clicked in yet. We_ _**won** _ _. The Reapers are gone. No more Harbinger, no more indoctrinated agents trying to undermine everything...no more people trying to kill me every second of every hour of every day. This is what triumph feels like._

Scratching his stubble-riddled chin, he raises the beer bottle in his hand in preparation to take another sip, only for him to notice his omni-tool, which had been put on silent, was beeping incessantly. It had been doing this for a few minutes now, but Shepard had dismissed the initial ping as some telemarketer or fan who had found his number. It wouldn't be the first time this week that had happened, some company he had purchased products from in the past 'leaking' his private details onto the extranet on the off chance they'd secure the guarantee of future purchases from said fans. It had gotten to the point where Shepard just ignored his omni-tool. But this beeping had continued for quite some time now, and it was getting to the point where he realized it wasn't a telemarketer or a fan. Either would have given up by now, surely.

Setting his beer down, he deftly opened up his wrist-bound holo interface and brought up the message in question. His eyes widened to find an extranet peer-to-peer video call coming in from Aria T'Loak, of all people. Now he was definitely interested. Not only did he  _not_  think Aria T'Loak would want his attention after all this time, but the fact she clearly so desperately craved his attention was perplexing.  _I guess its too much to hope she has the wrong number?_

Excusing himself quietly from the kitchen, he headed up the stairs and kept going past his bedroom and into his personal office at the end of the hallway on the second floor. Opening it, he quickly closed it behind him, shutting off and muting most of the ruckus from downstairs. Reaching his desk, he plopped himself down in the chair behind it and transferred the video call to his terminal, which booted up after just a few seconds, orange light brightening up the dark room, and temporarily causing him to squint his eyes until they got adjusted to the light. A few seconds more, and the call connected, Aria's face appearing on screen.

She did  _not_ look happy.

"Aria T'Loak, this is unexpected. What can I-"

"What in the actual  _fuck_ do you think you're playing at, Shepard? Have you  _completely_  lost your fucking mind?"

To say that Aria T'Loak, Pirate Queen of Omega, and basically the last person you would want to piss off and be after you, was livid and irate would be the monumental understatement of the century. Every fiber of her being radiated fury, and the few specks of dried blood on her face seemed to suggest somebody had been unfortunate enough to annoy her while she was in this state. Shepard had no idea why she felt this way toward him, but you could damn well bet he was going to find out.

Frowning, he leaned back in his seat, hands clasped in his lap, "You seem a little tense, Aria. Something wrong?"

That didn't exactly fan the flames whatsoever, "Tense?  _Tense_!? Shepard, a group from your little fanboy club just beat up one of my bouncers, tried to kill me and my men and disrupted my business. I've got a pile of dead bodies just lying outside Afterlife, one of my men was mauled to death and another shot and injured, and now I've got Pike asking why the hell a mass of around 30 or so 'innocent civilians' are currently lying outside my front door. So perhaps you could do me the fucking favor of telling me why you sent them to  _harass me_!?"

Shepard's eyes were wide at this point, shocked by the brutal display of a macabre bloodbath that Aria had just described to him. And the fact she was claiming they were Shepardists, and most of all, that they were sent  _by him_ to interfere with her work ethic, had most certainly got his attention. Tensing up, he leaned forward, gripping the desk tightly, "Let's get one thing straight, Aria. I have no idea what you're talking about. I have nothing to do with the Shepardist group outside of a perfunctory knowledge of them. I do not lead them, endorse their behaviour or activities, and I most  _certainly_ do not send them out to harass people, let alone you."

Aria just scoffed, "Pretty much fucking convenient you deny responsibility, isn't it? These people come crawling to Afterlife preaching about their 'Crusader' and how much of a 'Good Samaritan' you are, they attack and try to kill me, and you deny all knowledge of it. Forgive me if I remind you I wasn't born yesterday, Shepard."

Quickly losing his patience, as he usually did when conversing with this insufferable woman, he gritted his teeth, "If I may be candid, Aria, I don't care what you think. What happens on Omega is none of my business. If a bunch of my fans decide to take matters into their own hands, then I can't be held accountable because I don't tell them to do jack shit. Whoever these people are, whatever they do and how they choose to do it, is not any decision of mine. What would I gain from harassing you? I live on Rannoch. I'm a retired marine. My political power rests in reputation alone. I have no power, no jurisdiction, anymore. The UGC has been dissolved, and my rank of Consul with it. I've surrendered my Spectre status, so I can't even call upon that. So tell me Aria...what does retired war veteran have to gain by sending his fans to attack and vexate you? Do I seem like the kind of person who would attack you out of spite and self-amusement? Come now, Aria, we've worked together. You say you weren't born yesterday, yet you're accusing me of actions befitting that of a child."

_This is troubling though. And where the hell do they get these names from? 'Crusader'? 'Good Samaritan'? Is that what these people think of me? Must they insist on such ridiculous nicknames? When did 'Commander Shepard' no longer suffice? At least then I sound more like an actual person and less like a mythological legend._

Aria was intelligent enough to see the logic of his argument, and shrugged in capitulation, "Right, fine. So you didn't send these people to attack me. Perhaps you could do something about it? They seem to think you hate me, and apparently whatever you say is the word of God to them. If you so much as glare at someone they take that as an opportunity to publicly slay them. Tell them to back off, to leave me alone. They'll do what you say."

Shepard grimaced, turning away to look at the empty wall for a second.  _Shit, she wants me to get involved. To do the very thing I vowed not to do: validate the cultists. No, I told Tali and I promised myself I would never endorse their behaviour by acknowledging them. I can't be held accountable for their actions. Just because they worship me doesn't mean its my fault if they choose to shoot up a school._

Shepard knew he should probably do something about this, but he was too damn tired to care.  _This isn't my fight anymore. I'm not Commander Shepard. Its not my damn job to fix every fucking problem that props up. I can't be there everytime some terrorist wants to blow up something, or a psychopath goes on a killing spree. I'm a human being, and I've earned the right to rest. Tali is my only priority now, and that's how its going to stay._

_I've retired as a 'hero'. Time to let somebody else take my place._

Turning back to Aria, who was agitatedly waiting for him to reply, he shook his head, "No Aria, I won't. Its not my problem. I've got a life here, and I'm not abandoning it to go fix your every complication."

Aria just shook her head in disgust, "You have changed, Shepard. What happened to the white knight who wanted to save everyone? So you're saying I'll just have to put up with it on my own? That's your suggestion?"

He crossed his arms, shaking his head, "Didn't say that. He's busy at the moment, but once he's free, I'll inform Garrus about the situation and see if he can't make a detour to Omega to check this out. This is obviously a problem that needs to be sorted out, sooner rather than later, and I'd rather not have them create further problems."

Aria sighed, "Not exactly what I wanted, but I'll take Archangel over nothing. At least he's proven himself effective. And don't look so shocked, Shepard. It didn't take long for me to figure out," she added that last part in response to his raised eyebrow. He supposed he should have known she'd have it all figured out, knowing that Garrus was Archangel all along. No use trying to hide that information now: hardly anybody left alive from that battle to take advantage of information like that, and he knew Aria certainly didn't give a damn so long as Archangel didn't break the one rule of Omega that the pirate queen kept boasting about.

"Very well then," Shepard stated, "I'll let Garrus know. I won't pretend it was good to see you again, Aria, so I'll save you the pleasantries."

"I'd be ever so grateful, Shepard," the asari sarkily replied. And with that, she cut the connection on her end, leaving the screen of his terminal blank. He shut it down, swivelling his chair around and leaving the room, door closing behind him. As he descended the stairs, he pondered over what Aria had revealed to him, and couldn't help shaking his head.

_Unbelievable. I knew these people see me as somekind of heroic figure, but to go as far as echoing what I say and letting it fuel what they say and think? At what point does fandom turn into indoctrination? Am I unintentionally indoctrinating these people? Turning themselves into mindless drones who take my decisions and words as gospel and use it to justify their insane delusions? If they're temerarious enough to attack Aria fucking T'Loak of all people, then who else are they capable of attacking? How long until attacks on crime lords turns into political assassinations?_

The implications were endless. The frightful scenarios unthinkable. This needed investigation before it got out of control. And if Shepard couldn't do it, then somebody he trusted could.

_Even if I wanted to do it, getting involved would only fuel their inhibitions. They'll probably follow me around like lost puppies. Follow me all the way bloody home. No, I can't let that happen._

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he was practically ambushed on the corner by a curious looking Garrus, who had apparently noticed Shepard extricating himself from the room and had patiently waited at the bottom to see what was up. Just as well too, because it made Shepard's decision much easier, cutting off his thoughts before they could entertain terrifying possibilities.

"Something wrong? You left in a bit of a hurry."

"Yeah, got a call from somebody familiar," Shepard admitted, looking around the room, before turning back to him, "Could I ask you for a favour?"

Taking a sip of his beer, the turian's mandibles twitched with interest, "Sure, anything."

Shepard nodded, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall and thought of what to say next. After a moment, licking his lips, he continued, "I just got a call from Aria T'Loak. She's just been attacked by a group of Shepardists outside Afterlife."

Garrus' eyes widened slightly, and a response wasn't forthcoming for a few seconds as the spectre processed what he had heard. Finally clicking in his head, he shook his head and responded, "Aria T'Loak? Shepardists? Who would be dumb enough to make an attempt on Aria's life and not follow up on it? Was her reputation not clear enough? Was there a clause in the Omega Law fine print that forgot to mention 'oh, by the way, don't mess with the biotic psychopath running Omega, she'll turn you inside out and kill your family just to set an example'?"

Shepard chuckled a little, rubbing his neck, "Yes, these Shepardists didn't get that memo I think. Or they just didn't care. Garrus, their worship of me is getting...a tad worrisome. The moment they heard I didn't like Aria was the moment they turned on her. I'm a little concerned about the implications."

Garrus caught on quick, "If they're willing to attack Aria T'Loak simply because you don't like her...who else could they attack?"

"Exactly."

"This is insane," the turian mumbled, "I can understand a little hero worship, but these people are making my head spin..."

"Oh, it gets worse," Shepard emphasized, "They charged Aria and her men. Killed one of her guards in the scuffle and injured another. And because they lacked weapons and her mercs didn't, the majority of them were cut down like a scythe through wheat. Of the 40 people who attacked Aria...just over 30 were killed, Garrus. It turned into a fucking bloodbath."

"Spirits..." was Garrus' only response. It was the only reasonable response that came to mind.

"Obviously, somebody needs to sort this out," Shepard declared, "Aria immediately assumed I set them up to it, especially since they seemed to claim as much. I told her how ludicrous that was, and I had nothing to do with it. Now, she's insisting I go over and tell them to leave her alone, but you can probably surmize how I responded to that. Basically Garrus...once this party is over, and you guys are all sober enough, I was wondering if you could go investigate this. You've got a ship, a squad, and the Spectre authority to make it happen. I don't. I know that's only an excuse, but..."

A three-fingered hand reached up and grasped Shepard's shoulder, the turian nodding in understanding, "We've known each other a long time, Shepard, so at least give me some credit for knowing you. I know how much it means to you that you make this new life of yours with Tali work. And as somebody who is now getting married, I think you've made it clear what you think of the galaxy dropping its problems on you. You've helped win the war, let us keep the peace. As soon as the  _Normandy_ is able, I'll head to Omega and see what I can do to remedy the situation. Perhaps get them to back off a little. Use a little of my Spectre authority, my beautiful scars and my heroism. Got to get some use out of that Vakarian celebrity status while I still can. We all know the moment I speak to them they'll be calling themselves Vakarianists. They'll forget all about you."

Shepard guffawed, slapping the turian on the back, "You can have them. I'm done with fans. I remember what Conrad was like. Can't imagine what a whole organization full of him would be like."

The turian shuddered, "On second thought, you're welcome to them."

"Har har."

"In all seriousness though," Garrus turned to him, determination firmly set in his eyes, "I'll take care of it. We've dealt with worse before. If we can handle corrupt ERCS guardsmen, political officials, corporate baddies and the likes of the Illusive Man, then a few fans will be walk along cake."

"Cake walk. The saying is 'it'll be a cake walk.'"

"Whatever," Garrus dismissed, motioning Shepard back towards the party, where Zaeed and Javik were  _still_ insulting each other proficiently, "I'd rather just toss the cake at them than walk on it. That's just my style."

"Worked for us before."

"And may it work forever more."

Shepard laughed, returning to the party, thoughts of Shepardists and angry pirate queens returning to the rear end of his priorities. For now, he could forget the worries of the galactic political sphere.

On Rannoch, he was safe from it all.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**I know, I know. I promised no more monster chapters. But I had such fun writing this one that I couldn't help but go overboard in my usual fashion. And as a result, some of the action I promised. I hope you guys enjoyed this one.** _

_**I ask again that you guys please leave a review after you've read a chapter. It makes me happier to read over people's responses to my writing, and it makes me feel like people are actually reading my works. I want you guys to be enjoying this story as much as I am.** _

_**Chapter 6 will be up next, with a ton more action to boot. This chapter will be where things really kick off. How, you may ask? Wait and see. First, however, a Flashpoint prompt. Might do parts of it tomorrow and Monday if I feel up to it, but either way, it'll definitely get released next week.** _

_**And, as per the new norm, some music suggestions:** _

**Housewarming Party: "Bad Choices" by Shout Out Out Out Out that appears in the game** _**Mass Effect 3** _ **.**

 **Bau's Discovery: "Faces Without Names" by John Powell from the film** _**The Bourne Ultimatum** _ **.**

 **Attack on Aria: "Ambush" by Dennis Linde from the film** _**Daybreakers** _ **.**

 **Shepard Learns of the Attack: "The Way It Was" by Gustavo Santaolalla from the game** _**The Last of Us.** _


	7. Sanctify Unto Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the massacre on Omega, Garrus arrives at the station to investigate the Shepardist congregation there. The Council clandestinely orders a hit.

" _We are all alike on the inside._ " - Mark Twain.

* * *

 _Dock B2, Dyuko District, Omega - January 10, 2188 - Two weeks later_.

Garrus really had thought he'd seen the last of this place. That he would never have to return to the suppurate and insalubrious pisshole that was the Terminus Systems'  _de facto_ capital. In truth, he should have known this wouldn't be the case, and that Spectre business would inevitably bring him closer and closer to the galaxy's capital for scum, malefactors and the desperate. But he had hoped it wouldn't be so soon: that he'd be spared the station's presence for at least a while longer. Unfortunately, this wasn't to be.

For Garrus, part of this was a bit of a homecoming. After all, he had spent the worst part of two years living on this station, bringing down crime rates, decimating drug smuggling operations and being a general nuisance to criminals of all colors and currency. It was during this time he had earned the moniker 'Archangel', which had become his official alias during his one-team war against Omega's gangs.

He hadn't come here out of choice: he came here because he didn't have anywhere else to go. A month after the Eden Prime War had ended in 2183, the first  _Normandy_ was destroyed by the Collectors, and Shepard killed in the process. Garrus tried to go back to working with C-Sec in the hopes of making a difference, but that proved fruitless, and he soon found himself on Omega. With none of the resources of a major political power at his back or the authority that came with being a Spectre, he had, much like the rest of the crew, given up on trying to stop the Reapers and continue Shepard's fight. Instead, he found himself on the Terminus' clumsy, dystopian parody of the Citadel, where he would earn the loyalty of a select crew, and begin waging war against every criminal he could find. Blue Suns, Blood Pack, Eclipse, Grim Skulls, Bull Sharks...it didn't matter who, so long as they were hurting the little guy.

Once upon a time, he'd have believed he had made a difference on this station. That Archangel's two year campaign to purge Omega's delinquent infestation, inspire hope in the small folk and give them their own hero to have faith in, and to eventually topple the very pillars upon which the station thrived on, would make a difference. But it had been a lie. Two years later, his team was betrayed and murdered from within, Omega's crime rate was no closer to plummeting, and he'd earned the ire of all three of its biggest players. He had tried to be Shepard on a smaller scale, and lost. He got his team killed, he suffered betrayal from someone he thought he could trust, and he would have died himself if it wasn't for Shepard's timely arrival. Even when Garrus returned with Shepard a year later to liberate the station from Cerberus, he didn't feel he had actually changed anything. Aria T'Loak was back in power, the status quo returned in force, and the only thing the station was liberated from was the only sense of order it would ever get a taste for.

A sad testament to the station's cultural and societal climate when a pro-human paramilitary group on a standard power trip brought more positive change to the station than the person who was set to 'liberate' it. In the end, Garrus didn't care. Omega would never change. The power balance would shift every once and a while, but that was it. In a few hundred years, Aria would either be toppled or killed, and somebody else would take her place and continue the cycle of violence and lawlessness that preceded it. Those who lived here would continue to suffer for it, the higher ups would continue to care less, and the mercenary gangs would continue their reign of terror and freelancing while occasionally sparking mini gang wars of their own volition, with innocent civilians carelessly caught in the crosshairs and paying the price.

In the end...Garrus wouldn't bat an eye if somebody detonated a nuke on this station. Its destruction would bring him, and probably the Council, much glee in fact. There was nothing remotely redeeming about any of it. It was culturally stagnant, lacked any form of government or defense force, had no identity, had no purpose, and lacked any form of passion. It was just...there. It existed. And as long as it did, Garrus would never cease in his hatred for it, and those who were in control. Archangel, as far as he was concerned, died here.

And he died in vain.

Of course, the only reason Garrus was here was for a favor. Shepard had requested he come here to deal with the Shepardist problem that had cropped up, fearing that if these fans of his started getting ideas regarding the people he had altercations with in the past, they would use it as justification to commit assassinations or publicly lynch people. The last thing they needed right now, with the galaxy convalescing, was for mass murders and massacres done in the name of hero laudation. This cult had to be stopped right here. And while Shepard could have done it himself, his reasons for not doing so were logical. Giving into demand and approaching those who idolized him would only fuel their adoration, not to mention he couldn't be expected to drop his entire life and come running everytime somebody brandished a knife at another. It simply wasn't doable.

Garrus and the  _Normandy_ crew were the next best thing, and so the turian had wasted no time in taking the opportunity to help his friend dispense with this issue. It had taken him much longer to get around to it than he would have liked, unfortunately: two weeks had passed since the housewarming party (with the squad hanging around a few days longer to celebrate the beginning of the new year), and he had only just arrived on Omega. In his defense, it was no small trip for the  _Normandy_ to from system to system, world by world, to drop off the many crew members who were no longer part of the crew. They'd had gone as far as the Citadel in dropping off their ex-squadmates, and by the time they'd seen the last person off, a week and a half had passed. Aria had of course gotten impatient, and even went as far to contact Garrus himself for an update, to which he had, in a roundabout way, told her to have some patience and that he'd be there soon. She didn't take that well, he imagined, but didn't force the issue. Finally, another half week later, the  _Normandy_ was docked at Omega, and he was finally investigating Aria and Shepard's joint plight as he promised.

Knowing where they were headed, Garrus had made sure to gear up fully. His new and modified Armiger-class Terminus assault armor was one of the more recent additions to his collection, and the ultra-modern battleplate was given to him courtesy of the turian government, a great, big, heavily armoured 'thank-you' gift card for all he has done for them during the Reaper War. The Armiger-class hard suit was a turian variant of the human designed Terminus assault armor, which was also considered highly advanced for its time. The original armor was designed by the Lionhead Armoury as a prototype suit for their N7 and G4 special forces units: the idea was to create a suit of armor that could be used for battles of attrition in a vacuum, while also giving the user increased situational awareness and tactical feedback, a micro VI for combat analysis and a series of heat channelling nodes that disperse body heat, making them virtually invisible to passive thermal sensors. The prototype would later give birth to the Alliance's T5-V Battlesuit, which would perfect upon the original armor's flaws, whilst also turning into a heavy weapons platform.

The Armiger-class was military intelligence's answer to the T5-V, which not only designed a near-identical suit of armor and adapted it for turian use, but also, due to its namesake, specialized it entirely for use by the lethal professionals in the Armiger Legion. Being mobile infantry and special forces, the Armiger-class was equipped with a built-in thruster pack, a micro VI of its own, two inches thick of Bellatis-B combat mesh, making the user almost impervious to small arms fire, a powerful Class VI kinetic barrier that could take a single rocket impact and survive, and an interface system for omni-tool that allowed for direct tool-to-suit uplink. And Garrus, for his service to the Turian Empire, got his very own set, despite the Armiger-class being largely exclusive to the Armiger Legion due to its expensive cost and the lack of post-war resources needed to manufacture them. Lucky him.

His own set was painted red and black, like the  _Normandy_ , with a set of notches along the back to represent each member of his team that he lost during his tenure as Archangel. Additional ammo pouches and grenade slots were added and, at EDI and some of the geth's crew suggestion, he removed the micro VI and had a QEC software link added to allow EDI to plug into his battle suit when he needed it, which would quadruple any combat effectiveness the original VI could have offered. Overall, as Garrus had slipped into the armor as easily as one slipped under bed sheets, he could find no complaint with his combat gear.

Just as he had with his armor, he made sure to stock up on ammo and weapons. He never went anywhere without his Mantis sniper rifle, so that was slung over his back as a prerequisite, with a Phaeston assault rifle joining it, and his Paladin sidearm. He probably wouldn't need his helmet, but he kept it slung at his hip just in case.

He wasn't going alone either. Of the crew that he still had, he was bringing Kasumi, Miranda, Samara, Churchill and Jacob with him. Jacob had stuck around simply to see what all the fuss about and to, quote on quote, 'get a break from Brynn and the baby for a while.' Garrus knew the man was just gunning for more action, and enjoyed rolling with the squad that made it all happen. While all discipline and professionalism, Jacob, just like the rest of them, was pining for the old days just as much as they were. Blazes of glory, and what not. So, the man had stuck around, and the spectre saw no harm in bringing him along.

Churchill was a new addition Garrus hadn't expected. The 'female' geth spectre wasn't part of the  _Normandy_ crew at all, and not one he had on his bucket list of people to recruit. Upon arriving at the Citadel to drop off Jack and Ashley, Churchill had found out about Garrus' trip to Omega and wished to assist him as a fellow Spectre. Ashley wasn't one to complain, as she had her own assignment (something about the Bull Sharks causing problems on Zorya), and wouldn't be available to help. Garrus had, of course, been obliged to report Aria's problem to the Council as soon as the issue arose, as all Council operatives and officials were given directives to report any and all Shepardist activities, and with this one likely being the first to involve open violence on behalf of the cult, Garrus knew they'd want to hear it. As such, all of OPSCOM was aware ahead of time, including Churchill. The Council authorized Garrus' detour as an official assignment they sanctioned, and the geth apparently saw no reason not to help Garrus. In the end, help was help, and he wasn't exactly going to turn it down. So the geth spectre tagged along.

Garrus had chosen his team wisely. Despite his hopes that he could resolve this peacefully, he knew that cultists, by their very nature, could get belligerent and boorish, often to the point of confrontation or threats. The demonstration, and subsequent massacre, outside Afterlife just two weeks ago (now last year), was evidence of that. Garrus had planned accordingly, making sure to bring at least two biotics, a tech expert and two heavy hitters. This way if 'shit hit the fan', as Shepard liked to say, they'd be ready. It was much more difficult to lynch a group of heavily armed specialists, especially when they're ex- _Normandy_ crew members. Still, he was hoping their status as Shepard's sqaud would earn a few points with the cult, and hopefully avoid another unnecessary slaughter.

One could hope. Garrus was still finding it difficult getting used to taking Shepard's place as commander of both the  _Normandy_ and its ground team. Such a position took time to acclimatize to, especially when the previous imcumbent has left such a legacy in their place. Shepard was convinced Garrus was to be his successor however, hence why he had left the ship in Garrus' command once he resigned as a spectre. He was determined to make his best friend, his  _prelatum_ , proud. Regardless of how it would seem to others, Shepard was not a man of favouritism, and if he entrusted you enough to take over such a critical position, then he knew you could handle it. He'd always been a good judge of character. It was a rare trait he had mastered well, often knowing a person's qualities and whether or not he liked them simply from their initial meeting.

Garrus wished he had that gift. It would certainly help going into this confrontation.

Stepping onto Omega, it wasn't long before the team was met with their first reminder of Omega's constitution. The turian practically sighed at the predictability of it, watching as a sleezy looking salarian rushed up to them, the man's sunken eyes, dishevelled clothing and shuddering gait telling Garrus all he needed to know about him already. As he got closer, the abrasions and lesions dotting his leathery skin looked like they had been picked at, with open wounds either exposing the raw flesh underneath or oozing pus steadily. The smell that assaulted their nostrils, a mixture of ozone, grime, vomit and what seemed like the distinct, pungent stink of sewrage, did not help the image, and he could hear Kasumi's hushed snort of revulsion, and turned to find the look of absolute disdain on Miranda's face that she made no effort to hide.

The description of Omega always proved itself accurate upon repeat visits: an absolute shithole.

"Welcome to Omega!" the salarian rasped happily, right eye twitching erratically as he rubbed his shoulder roughly, itching away at his blistered tissue, "My name is Fargut! What can I-"

 _Spirits, I don't have time for this._ "I'm a Spectre."

The salarian's smile vanished in an instant, mouth frozen open mid sentence. His eyes darted between the many members of the sextet, as if noticing them for the first time since he stumbled over to them half-dazed. As several seconds ticked by in the imbecile's brain, it finally clicked in his head that the group all had weapons on them: not only that, but he was wearing imposing combat armor, and one of them was a geth, the machine's glowing blue optic staring him down lifelessly. These combination of factors must have made for one intimidating sight, and the salarian, wordlessly, quickly ran back down the hall, giving them no further hassle. The turian couldn't help but grin a little.

_Shepard must have really enjoyed abusing that. Now I know how I feel when he pulled that stunt on Officer Tammert when he was bullying that quarian pilgrim. One of the few perks. Surprised it worked on a place like Omega, but I guess the reputation proved to be more of a deterrent than the actual authority itself. Nobody wants to mess with a Spectre when they're on business._

"Well..." Jacob chuckled, the ex-Cerberus operative wearing casual clothing with a ballistic vest underneath, a kinetic barrier emitter hanging from his belt and a pistol magnetically holstered on his left hip, "...that's one way to get rid of pesky undesirables."

Samara and Kasumi offered mere nods in agreement, the stoic justicar rarely showing any emotion regardless and the thief already being used to the sorts of people found on the station. Churchill didn't even acknowledge the situation any further, the geth's optics subtlely twitching in every direction as it assessed its surroundings, moving on from the encounter in a way only a machine could. Garrus just nodded along to Jacob's point, already looking ahead to see an armoured batarian marching towards them, two equally armoured turians at his flank. The salarian drug addict slipped past the batarian, barely offering him more than a glance. The batarian's scowl of disdain told Garrus that their encounters were a frequent occurrence, and that the salarian was no friend of his. Right now, the turian was more concerned with the three armed mercs currently heading towards them.

Miranda tensed up noticeably, but did not make any motion to draw her weapon. She knew how this worked, "Speaking of undesirables...here comes Aria's welcome wagon."

The group held their position until Aria's trio finished their approach, the batarian stopping just infront of Garrus, having obviously acknowledged the turian as the squad leader. The batarian had a holstered SMG, but didn't draw it, with his two guards wielding lethal looking M-23 Katana shotguns in alert carry. Looking between the six of them, his eyes finally landed on Garrus', and he gave a brisk nod, "Aria's been expecting you for two weeks. I've been told to pass on her displeasure to you, and to insist you meet her in Afterlife."

 _A pity for Aria that I don't act on her beck and call._ After a moment, he finally managed to recognize the batarian, and just shook his head with a modicum of disbelief, "Well Bray, I've already informed Aria why we're late. She may not like it, but I've got other things to do that don't involve solving her every problem for her. I'm doing this as a favor for a friend. She'll be happy we even came. Spectre work and all."

Bray just rolled his eyes, jabbing a thumb behind him as a motion for them to follow, "Save it, Vakarian. Just follow me to Afterlife so we can both get this over with. I've got more important duties to attend to that don't include being a glorified doorman. Come on," Bray then turned on his heel and left back down the hallway, the two guards following close behind. With a heavy sigh, he nodded to his crew and followed, Kasumi and Miranda following in behind him, with Churchill, Jacob and Samara forming up the rear. Garrus didn't like being lead around by Aria's people, but when in a foreign land, the rule of law surpasses all. And following Aria T'Loak's rules would make his job so much easier, not to mention done a whole lot faster.

_Follow her lead and it'll be over sooner. Then we can leave this asinine pisshole that Aria calls her throne._

It didn't take long before they were walking across one of the main streets in the Dyuko district, where Afterlife rested on the opposite side, waiting. As per usual, a crowd of people were waiting outside to get in, a bouncer of some description denying them entrance or delaying them for one reason or another. Bright, flashing pink lights adorned the upper superstructure of the night club, the Cerberus insignia that had been there during Petrovsky's reign now gone and replaced with the familiar electronic flames of the galaxy's most notorious and frequented club. To the left, the Omega skyline could be seen, stretching onto the horizon it seemed. Endless rows of slums were perpetuated along the outer perimeter of the mined out planetoid, toxic plumes of pollution fogging up the air and reducing visibility. Skycars wizzed through the air, although not in the volumes one would find on Illium or many metropolitan worlds: after all, skycars were a privilege of the elite, and nearly 85% of Omega's population were poor and insolvent. Omega preyed on the weak, and endorsed those with delusions of strength. Just one more reason why he hated visiting this place.

The street wasn't very packed, although it usually wasn't. The marketplace to the east of Afterlife was usually where most of the civilian traffic diverted to, with the street outside the main club left empty, or most of the groupings waiting to get inside. The few people that weren't were mercenaries on a smoke break, technicians hired by Aria to fix the many faulty power systems embedded in the walls and bulkheads, or they were junkies, either lying around in puddles of their own sick, moaning pitifully as they scratch at aching and pulsing sores along their skin, or were wandering around in a daydream, so pumped up on Hallex or Creeper that they couldn't differentiate between hallucinogenic fantasy and reality. Snorts were heard as users snorted red sand, dim biotic glows temporarily lancing up their body as the element zero-laced drugs filled them with ecstasy. Other Earth-sourced drugs, such as fentanyl, heroin, morphine, methamphetamine...Omega had them in abundance. And these poor people were either hopelessly addicted or in the process of overdosing.

Bray and his men didn't care: they waltzed right past these people like they were an everyday phenomenon. The group, Garrus included, couldn't help wrinkling their noses at the intense smell of bile and blood, and they increased their pace as they tried to get away from it. There was no helping these people, he knew: they were too far gone, just one of the many victims of this station's barbaric and anarchic disregard for life.

Garrus had once believed he could save these people. Give them a better life by hitting and destroying the operations that gave them access to these narcotics. But in the end, Archangel had been a naive vigilante who had the misapprehension that he could change the world by blowing up its problems. He had failed to understand that the root cause ran deeper than simple criminal organizations, and that real change came from long-term reform, not raids and battles. Archangel had only learnt that lesson when it was too late, and it wasn't one he would make again. In the end, ironically enough, Cerberus had been the one to come close to installing some law and order on the station, and he had helped to oust them.

Perhaps one day...Omega would change. For the better.

Reaching the entrance, Garrus immediately noticed the human bouncer's bruised face, with reddened eye sockets and small, healing cuts along his cheeks and forehead. Garrus surmized these were the result of the Shepardist massacre that had happened on these very steps, and the turian couldn't help but picture the scene as if he were there. Piles of bodies, the smell of cordite filling the air, gore and viscera filling the streets, blood splattering every individual inch of steel decking, the stink of death shrouding the entire area in a blanket of-

He snapped out of the vision, and shuddered at the thought of it. Regardless of his many years in C-Sec and his special forces work on the  _Normandy_ , he would never get used to the violence one being could impose on another. Even after witnessing the horrors of Dr. Saleon's lab experiments, what Cerberus did to David Archer, the Reapers process for turning people into husks, the comprehensive slaughter of innocent people, mass graves...despite all of it, and even though he had become jaded and desensitized to most of it, he would never get used to it. And the thought of 30 people just being gunned down, their lives snuffed out with the rapidfire precision of an assault rifle's scalpel of death, was one that sent shivers up his spine. And Aria...just didn't seem to care. She seemed annoyed, more than anything else, that such carnage had inconvenienced her. No heart. No soul. Not a single shit to give.

It was no wonder that Aria T'Loak was, once upon a time, one of Archangel's planned targets for assasination. The plan was that once he had taken care of and eliminated the Blue Suns, Blood Pack, Eclipse and the Talons, he would have set his sights to Aria's syndicate. He wasn't an idiot: he knew Aria was not someone to be trifled with, so he had made sure that if he was going to kill her, he'd make sure to get it done the first time, leaving no chance for her to come back and retaliate. Of course, he had never gotten the chance, but if he had...he wouldn't have hesitated to pull that trigger and end her life.

 _She's a sociopath. Doesn't give a damn about people's lives. Turns the other cheek whenever it doesn't concern her._ Garrus felt ashamed to have once called her an ally, to have fought by her side. In the end, everybody who wasn't a Reaper or with Cerberus was an ally during the war, but it still hadn't felt right. To know that the very person he'd fought side-by-side with was the very person he had planned to kill at one point.

It didn't take long to reach the interior of Afterlife. The music was just as obnoxious as it had always been, never failing to give him headaches as it infiltrated the deepest corners of his mind and shook it apart with its noisy dissonance. He could barely hear the sound of his own thoughts, and it didn't help that the intense strobing lights of the dance stage were enough to induce epileptic seizure: if it wasn't for turian eyes being used to the intense UV rays of their home planet, it might have hurt his eyes after a while.

Within moments, Garrus and his squad were standing before the woman herself. Her guards hovered around her like flies as they always did, one at the bottom of each stairway leading up to her little throne, while at least seven or eight of them guarded her at the top. The guards escorting Bray returned to their positions at the back, while Bray stood to the far left of the couch, hands clasped infront of him. Aria, who was usually alone, sat in the center of the couch with what looked like one of the club's female human dancers draped across her lap. The asari seemed to be enjoying her company immeasurably, a smile gracing her lips that made Garrus' stomach turn. He'd lost count of the amount of times he'd seen a similar smile on the pirate queen's face whenever she'd done something sadistic, such as unleashing civilians upon Cerberus' forces during the liberation over a year ago. Luckily, it appeared this smile was for an entirely different reason, and it seemed to have something to do with the dancer on her lap, who was also smiling.

Aria was still smirking as she turned, although it had been demoted to the corner of her lip, facing Garrus, "Garrus Vakarian...what a surprise. And here I believed you were never going to turn up. I asked for help two weeks ago: you took your sweet time."

He felt one of his mandibles twitch subconsciously, "I was busy. Hope you weren't too  _inconvenienced_."

"Oh, not at all," Aria retorted, never one to be out done as far as sardonic quips went, "Luckily for all of us, the Shepardists have been awfully quiet ever since our little meet-and-greet. Kept to themselves, haven't bothered me since. Of course, I did have to raid a few more of their complexes to set an example: they  _did_ fuck with me, and that's one rule that can't be broken. They haven't retaliated and now they've withdrawn back to their little hideout. They're all yours... _when_ you're ready."

Aria loved to play these games. As Shepard told him, talks with Aria were more like verbal sparring matches than actual conversational exchanges. It was a constant game of one-upping the other, lacing their words with threats, mocking reminders and bitter replies. Aria was a woman who was used to dominating her opponents, pummelling them into submission and molding them into what she wanted. Shepard had been the first man she'd met in hundreds of years who not only gave as good as he got, but actually managed to stump her once or twice. Aria would never admit it, but he had impressed her, so much so that she'd come to him for help in retaking her station, a decision that must have been difficult for her in the long run. So, as Shepard had warned him, as long as you treated her with enough respect to keep her happy, but didn't suck up to her like her own men did, she would treat you with respect. She didn't like sycophants, and she didn't listen to them either. Garrus had to put up a strong front...which he had no problem doing.

He nodded with a plain expression, offering her no satisfaction, "We're ready. Got to say Aria, Shepard is most flattered that you came to him for help with this."

Noticing his tone, Aria chuckled lightly under her breath, before a loud slap of flesh on flesh could be heard, the asari's hand having drifted down to her company's buttocks, the dancer looking completely unbothered by the action, "Shepard created this problem, he needs to fix it. He may not like it, but these people look up to him, and his actions have emboldened them. I would have preferred he deal with this personally, but as long as its dealt with, I don't really give a fuck," hand idly stroking the girl's hip, Aria turned to Garrus, motioning to her personal dancer, "You look a bit glum, Vakarian. Perhaps one of my girls would be to your taste. I know one of them has a thing for turians."

Garrus could barely hold back a guffaw. Aria's next move was fairly predictable, although only because Shepard had warned him of it.  _"Aria likes to be in control of the conversation: she'll redirect the topic whenever she pleases. Not out of boredom, but to yank your chain. Get you riled up. First time we met, she offered up one of her dancers to me, told me I looked like I needed a girl to warm my lap. Best way to respond? Ignore the offer. Push to the heart of the issue. Evince to her that you don't care about her control, and that will gain her respect. Its all a ruse to test your constitution. See if you're worth her time."_

Just like Shepard suggested, Garrus went straight for the jugular, "Where have they withdrawn to?"

Aria's smirk only widened, although he catched the glimmer in her eye: she looked like she had expected that response. The smirk disappeared after a moment, Aria motioning for the dancer to leave. She did so without a word, standing up and leaving with haste, rushing down the stairs and out of view. With the initial pleasantries over with, Aria finally got down to business. Her lips thinned out into a placid expression, clicking her fingers at Bray wordlessly. The batarian apparently understood her intention, as he quickly produced a datapad, leaned over and presented it to Garrus. He took it gingerly, and turned away to look at it. He immediately recognized it as a layout. Specifically, the blueprints for a building.

"Suri-Kara hotel," Aria elaborated, legs crossed and hands resting in her lap, "Kima district. That's where they're hiding. They think they're hidden, but nothing goes by on Omega without me knowing, they should know that by now."

He nodded along, but couldn't contain his surprise at the location the Shepardists had chosen, "The Suri-Kara hotel? That was Archangel's old hideout, wasn't it? Why would they choose that specific spot? They couldn't possibly know about that."

Aria shrugged non-chalantly, "Not entirely unbelievable. Archangel made his last stand against the Blue Suns, Eclipse and Blood Pack at that very spot two years ago: everybody knows where it is. And if the Shepardists knew that Shepard's best friend held out there, I'm sure they'd find it very symbolic to set up their operations there." A ghost of a grin slid across her mouth, and Garrus cursed his slip up.

 _Of course she knows I'm Archangel. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence would have connected the dots eventually. Not like it matters anymore. Anybody who wanted me dead is long gone._ "Right," he acknowledged, before turning and passing the datapad over to Miranda to have a look of her own, the woman curling a lock of hair behind one ear before looking over it, "Why give us this, though? We're here to confront these Shepardists. The only point to giving us a layout would be..." he locked eyes with the pirate queen, his look turning into a glare as he crossed his arms, "Are you expecting us to clear them out?"

"Of course not. Don't be so dramatic," she corrected, leaning forward as she returned with a scowl of her own, "Consider those blueprints...a contingency. Your plan B. You can't expect these zealots to just roll over and give up. These are the same people who saw I had guards and still believed they could kill me. If they perceive you as a threat, make no mistake, they will try and kill you. And if they do make that attempt, you'll want the knowledge of the land. A quick escape might be useful, wouldn't you say?"

He didn't buy her explanation for one minute.  _That's why she wanted Shepard here. She wanted someone with a reputation. Somebody she knew for certain would not fail to eliminate these 'pests'. Typical of her. Why negotiate if you can just destroy it?_ He didn't bring up his skepticism of her elucidation, knowing it would only piss her off and make his job more difficult. Instead, he went along with it, "Well, thank you for the information then: we'll take care of it. But let me make one thing perfectly clear: we are not here as your on-call pest control. We are here to talk to these people, and hopefully get them to back down and leave you alone. We only brought weapons in case things get hot. We will not be responsible for another bloodbath."

"Whatever. I don't really care," the pirate queen declared, leaning back into her couch again, straightening her leather jacket as she did, "As long as they stop intefering in my business, I don't really care what you do with them. Just make sure you do. I can only be so lenient."

With the entire group having looked over the datapad and downloaded its information their omni-tools, Kasumi finally passed it back to Garrus, who in turn passed it back to Bray, its owner, who deactivated and pocketed it. He nodded to the batarian, then to Aria, before turning and leaving. Just as he was about to descend the stairs however, he felt a small smile form, and he turned back slowly to face Aria, who was still watching him with a raised eyebrow, apparently surprised that he had more to say.

"Explain this to me Aria, because I'm a little confused," he began, sealing away his amusement behind a veil of indifference, "Why haven't you already dealt with them? They did 'fuck with you', and you know their location. Why not send your goons to shake them down?"

Aria almost looked like she had been surprised by that comment, but it didn't take long for her to clamp down on that and adopt a severe look of anger in her eyes, "The Kima district is part of Talon territory. That is Pike's jurisdiction. We have...a mutual agreement. His men leave me to my business, I leave him to his. My thanks for the Talons' help in reclaiming the station."

 _What's this? Aria is getting bossed around? Well...at least part of Omega has changed._ Satisfied he had left Aria stewing irritably, Garrus took this as his cue to leave. Moving down the steps, he joined his team at the bottom and they followed him as they left Afterlife. Once outside, they quickly found a skycar, provided by Aria, that they could use to get to the Kima district. Once they had all piled in, they ascended into the cityscape, inputting the coordinates for the Suri-Kara hotel into the vehicle's SPS.

The Suri-Kara hotel was an old abandoned hotel complex that had been built by an old asari company in what they saw as a pre-emptive dive into Omega's future booming economy, the company believing that Omega would one day be subject to big businesses investing big in urbanizing the station, and they wanted first bite of the pie. Unfortunately for them, their premonition ran up dry, and the entire investment fell apart. Six hotels they had built were readily abandoned, Suri-Kara among them. Due to its isolated location, and the fact that the only way to enter it was through the maintenance subways (which could be locked down), and a bridge (which was very exposed), Garrus had chosen it as his headquarters during his two year campaign against crime. It had also been the place of his last stand. So suffice it to say, this place held memories for him. Good...and bad. It was not a place he wanted to return to, but had no choice.

_Why there...why did they have to set up there of all places? Mordin's clinic, Aria's old bunker, the old laboratories Cerberus had set up...anywhere but there. Anywhere would have been a better choice._

They briefly passed through Talon airspace, where their car was pinged with a lock-on warning and they were contacted by a Talon officer who ordered them to identify himself. After all that was done, the lock-on was disengaged and they were allowed to continue. Finally, the skycar arrived at their destination, parking at the opposite side of the bridge, right outside the room where Tarak had been planning and coordinating attacks against Archangel's position. Walking through the now empty room, they made their way to the bridge, finding themselves subject to quite the sight.

The Shepardists had certainly been hard at work redecorating the place. Any evidence of the siege that had taken place here was gone: blackened steel plating was removed and replaced, discarded weapons taken or tossed away, and the bodies either disposed of or incinerated. There was no evidence of the battle that had taken place so many years ago, and the scene looked untouched. At the opposite end of the bridge, a group of four men and women stood guard. They wore no armor and didn't look to have shield emitters on them, although the latter could be hidden under their shirts. The only sign that they did anything but stand there was the pistols at their hips. One of them looked fairly well built, with a cap fitted over their head in Alliance black and blue. Garrus immediately knew this man had to have been ex-Alliance based on his stance, the cap and how he held himself.

 _Looks like the Shepardists don't just recruit civilians, but ex-military as well. That's concerning._ Still, Garrus and his group didn't halt their progress, and in just a few moments, one of the guards was stepping forward (the ex-soldier), hand held out, motioning for him to stop. Garrus did so, motioning his squad to do the same, and waited for the guard to complete his approach.

"Who are you and what's your business here?" he demanded, snappy and to the point. He didn't sound all too happy at seeing them. After what Aria did to some of his people at Afterlife, Garrus couldn't say he blamed him.

Deciding to cut straight to the point, he gave the guard what he wanted, "Spectre Garrus Vakarian, CSS  _Normandy_ SR-2," the guard's eyes visibly widened, as did those of his compatriots behind him. The name drop had gotten the reaction he wanted, and he noted the sentry's posture begin to slacken, "I'm here to speak with the leader of your group. It pertains to the attack your people orchestrated on Afterlife two weeks ago."

The guard nodded, "Of...of course. We weren't expecting you to be here...we thought Aria was going to send her goons to attack us, so please forgive the rude greeting," he motioned for his men to relax, and then to Garrus and his team to follow him, "Please, come with me. I'll show you to our leader."

Seeing no reason not to comply, he did exactly that, navigating his way past the Shepardist checkpoint with no problem and into the compound itself, his friends not far behind. Aside from the odd click of a servo as Churchill moved, none of them made a sound as they were escorted inside, not knowing what to expect when they got inside or what they would do if things got violent: which they were hoping it wouldn't.

What they found inside defied all expectations.

Passing through the first few rooms wasn't a problem: most of them were locked, and those that were open only offered brief glimpses of the activities inside: the giggling of children, the ambience of conversation, the sound of a vidscreen displaying a sports game. These were all pretty harmless observations, and they didn't produce any evidence of anything that Garrus would perceive as worrying. But that was only until they got into the core of the Shepardist hideout.

To their immediate left, was what amounted to a shrine. A large vidscreen played and repeated compilations of footage showing Shepard in combat, whether it be during the Skyllian Blitz, Eden Prime War, Collector campaign or the Reaper War. Clad in armor and weapon in hand, the recorded version of Shepard battled his way through hordes of enemies, all the way the combat footage was propped on a pedestal and praised like somekind of holy temple. A few people were gathered around it, while one of them, an asari mother, had her child propped up on her lap, the toddler waving her Commander Shepard figurine through the air. Pictures of Shepard from his many years of service, either in his uniform or armor, were propped all over the walls, giving the members of the cult a constant reminder of who they worshipped. In the far corner, a preacher was giving grandiose speeches to a hushed crowd of twenty or so people, all of whom were watching her with rapt attention. Garrus couldn't make out the words of the preacher, as they were in a seperate room and the walls muted their words, but he was pretty sure it had something to do with Shepard's religious exaltation. He could have sworn the term 'Crusader' was used to.

_The Crusader? Shepard's not going to be happy to hear that they're calling him that._

Walking around one corner, Miranda had to stop abruptly to let a fraternity of kids run past, all of them holding figurines of some description, whether it be of Shepard, the  _Normandy_ or even one of its crew members. One of the kids, holding a figurine of none other than Garrus himself, stopped in place as he looked up in awe, finding his idol walking past him. The kid shouted out to his friends, and within moments, the squad had a rabble of children pointing at them in reverence. Miranda, Samara and Churchill ignored it, Kasumi giggled and waved back, Jacob looked mildly perturbed, and Garrus simply pressed forward, ignoring all else. Rounding one corner, they even found a suit of N7 armor hanging on the wall, which was probably his biggest surprise. However, upon closer inspection, his eyepiece told him that the properties of the armor identified it as a replica. Shaking his head, and giving his group a passing glance, they pressed on.

All in all, as they approached the center of the Shepardist complex, the group became more and more disturbed by the imagery surrounding them. It was all too familiar to religious iconography. Shepard's armor, pictures of him on the walls, recordings of him being played, children being indoctrinated into believing exaggerated versions of the man's personality, people preaching about his deeds...while none of it was particularly violent or encouraging any attacks, the parallels to religious denominations of the past were striking.

Even Samara was picking up on it, the asari breaking silence to whisper to Garrus in passing, "Many of these images and activities remind me of the ceremonies that Athame's servants used to perform in the great Temple of Athame. They were religiously devoted to her teachings. Dedicated to learning every aspect of her being and her commandments so they could be fully committed to serving her."

The turian found her words chilling.  _Commandments. Committed. Serving. This...is going beyond hero worship. This is turning into a...a religion. These people aren't just fans and dedicated admirers, these people are propping Shepard up as if he's somekind of God. Like he's above the realm of mere mortals. Is that why they call him the Crusader? Are they already applying new titles to him? Is this where it begins?_

Garrus could only shake his head and move on.  _Now I see what Shepard meant. About not wanting to endorse fandom. He was afraid this would happen. No wonder he sent me instead. If he had come, these people would have dropped everything to kiss his boots. Spirits..._

Word spread around the compound fast. Whether it was from the guards or the kids they ran into earlier, rumors spread through the entire camp like wildfire, and soon everybody was watching and pointing at the entourage in awe and veneration. Kasumi waved at a few of them, but after a while, the novelty got old, and even the indomitably cheery thief began to get creeped out by the attention they were getting, with some even  _bowing their heads_ to them as they passed, or openly stopping everything they were doing and making way for them, like intruding upon their movement was sacrilegious.

"I'll admit," Kasumi whispered in his ear, "This is more than a little creepy."

Churchill, for the first time since they arrived, spoke up as well, its feminine electronic voice putting them all off with its sudden shrill, "Vakarian-Commander, we believe the Shepardist-Worshippers are demonstrating behaviour similar to how the heretics perceived and treated the Old Machines. Is this a correct assumption?"

"Yeah, Churchill," he responded worry lacing his tone, "A  _very_ correct assumption."

After what seemed like a very long walk through the structure (which Garrus could hardly recognize, it had been changed so much), the group finally arrived at their destination. The guard showed them into what looked like living quarters, with a long two rows of bunks lining both sides of the wall, most of them empty, with only a few being occupied as people slept. A single vidscreen occupied the other end of the wall, and it was displaying more silent footage of Shepard in action, with the word 'Crusader' set like a watermark at the bottom of the screen throughout all of it, confirming that 'Crusader' was a term used to identify Shepard by the cult.

At the end of the hall was a single man wearing a grey waistcoat, a white undershirt, and black pants, sitting on the end bunk, looking over his omni-tool. He had brown hair that looked to be gelled and combed to the left, with muted green eyes and a smooth complexion. The human male looked very tidy, and he dressed like a businessman. And given that the guard was currently moving towards him, Garrus could only assume this very man was the leader here.

 _Good._ He mentally pondered.  _Finally going to get some answers as to what this madness is about._

Seeing the guard approach from his peripheral vision, the man turned to look, and his eyes widened as he saw the squad approaching. He quickly stood up, straightening his uniform in an attempt to look presentable, and deactivated his omni-tool. The guard tried to explain who they were, but he was quickly dismissed, the man stepping forward with wide eyes to offer a hand shake to Garrus immediately on the onset, "Why...I never thought I'd see this! Garrus Vakarian! Oh, and Kasumi Goto! Samara T'hanus, the feared justicar! Jacob Taylor, the Alliance soldier! Miranda Lawson, the woman who stole the Crusader's heart!" he shook all their hands one by one as he addressed them excitedly, but when he finally landed on Churchill, he frowned, "Uh...Legion? I thought you were dead!"

Churchill's headflaps twitched minutely, "This platform identifies as Churchill. Legion, the Progenitor, is in fact dead, as you put it."

While this was all going on, Miranda looked utterly baffled by the man's claim that she had 'stolen Shepard's heart'. Apparently his relationship with Tali still wasn't galactic news yet, and the Shepardists must have taken some tabloid a bit too seriously. Suffice to say, the woman was not happy about the claim and was about to correct him, but let it slide after she caught the look Garrus shot her. She understood and backed down.

The leader resumed his friendly demeanour, shaking the geth's hand earnestly, "Well, any friend of the Crusader is welcome here!" he took a step back, running a hand through his hair and letting off an explosive sigh. He shot the guard next to him a dirty look, but quickly wiped it from his face as he turned back to the group: not quickly enough for Garrus to fail to pick up on it, "Allow me to be the first to apologize for our behaviour. Mr. Denton here should have been more  _forthcoming_ about your arrival. We would have made preparations!"

He held up a hand to placate him, not wanting the man to become too overly thankful as he showered them with praise. After being stared at all the way in, he wasn't too enthusiastic about getting lionization in verbal form, "Its no problem, Mr...?"

"Ah, of course! Where  _are_ my manners!" he gave an overly sensational bow to them, his grin so wide that his pearly whites could be seen bared in their full form, "My name is Salvatore Mankins, and I am the leader of the Omega cell for the Faith of the Crusader. As you probably saw on your way in, we are  _dedicated_ to preserving and facilitating the spread of the Crusader's truth to all the four corners of the galaxy! To have his crew here...it is clearly an honor we have not earned yet! If only the Good Samaritan knew about this!"

 _By the Spirits...this really does go beyond fandom._ Still, the term 'Good Samaritan' did interest Garrus a little. He hadn't heard that one before. He'd heard 'Crusader' and 'Savior' passed around more than a few times, but this was the first time 'Good Samaritan' propped up. By the way Mankins put it, it sounded like the name for a seperate person, not another nickname for Shepard. Curious, Garrus decided to ask, "Good Samaritan? Who's he?"

That seemed to surprise Mankins, who frowned in confusion, "You don't know about our leader? He is the one who leads us all to the Faith. He has met the Crusader firsthand, and spoken with him. He is the one who has strengthened our organization and made it what it is now. He had saved us from the decadent and self-indulgent perversion of Conrad Verner. He has given purpose, renewed spirit and has become our...oracle, of sorts. He believes in the Crusader like nobody else does. He's the one who passed down our mandate to preserve and spread the truth of the Crusader!"

That got Garrus' attention, and from the reactions of his group, they were just as surprised as well.  _So the Good Samaritan is the one who leads the entire Shepardist organization. I've head inklings of this from the Council, but by the time I left, they weren't exactly forthcoming about information, and still insisted on calling him 'unidentified leader.' Now we have a name. The way these people speak...this has to be the Samaritan's work. Calling him an oracle...and saying that he's had contact with Shepard? That's just a blatant lie! Shepard doesn't know anybody who would be willing to idolize him other than Conrad, and from what this man just said, Conrad was ousted by the Samaritan, so its not even the same person. Should definitely pass along this information when I can. OPSCOM will want to hear this, especially Bau._

For now though, he had to get to the heart of the issue, and why they were here, even if he didn't like it. Stalling Mankins before he could continue asking them questions, the spectre began his questioning.

"Mr. Mankins, we'd love to stay and chat about Shepard's adventures. We do love talking with our fans," he lied, "But unfortunately, we are here on official Spectre business. It has been brought to light that two weeks ago, your people orchestrated an attempt on Aria T'Loak's life that resulted in the deaths of 30 of your members, the death of one of Aria's, and the injury of another. Could you perhaps explain to me why your people thought this was okay?"

Mankins shrugged, looking entirely unconcerned, "Forgive me for asking Spectre Vakarian, but it hardly seems important. Aria T'Loak is a criminal and profligate. She profits from killing innocent people and shaking down others. One could be forgiven for thinking that such a thing is beneath the attention of law enforcement, especially a Spectre."

 _And normally it would be_ , "Mr. Mankins, I will be the one to decide whether or not this is beneath me. Now, like it or not, 30 of your people are dead. Pointlessly slaughtered in a shootout that could have been avoided. Now, I'd like an explanation. If you won't offer one to a spectre, then offer one to Garrus Vakarian, one of Shepard's friends, who is anxious to know why this action was apparently done in his name." He was hoping that by name dropping Shepard he'd be able to use that to squeeze an answer out of Mankins. It was a dirty way to go about it, and Garrus felt bad for doing it, but if he didn't, they'd be here forever.

Luckily for him, it paid off, as Mankins' perplexed expression informed him, "Are you saying the Crusader doesn't approve of our actions? I don't understand. Aria T'Loak is a criminal! The woman has actively admitted she despises the Crusader, and we know for a fact the Crusader doesn't like her! We thought that the Crusader would approve of us bringing justice to the heretic! We only did what we thought was right! She spurned his truth, and she must pay for it!"

He shook his head, "No, he doesn't approve. And quite frankly, neither do I. 30 people are dead as a result of your group's actions. 30 people from  _your_ group. It was an act of wanton violence that achieved nothing. Aria is still in power, she's still alive, and your people have nothing to show for it. Now I don't know or care if your Good Samaritan authorized this attack. What I  _do_ know is that actions like this reflect very badly on Shepard, and make you look even worse. Aria contacted me and was hoping I could resolve this situation without further bloodshed. She's not a forgiving woman, and you're lucky she sent me and not a death squad. The Council also sent me because they don't like the message you're sending. Did your people give any thought as to how this might make the Shepardists look? I'm damn sure this isn't how Shepard would want you to act."

"I..." Mankins stuttered, before backing down as he realized he had no retort to offer that would be good enough. After a long pause, he finally gave in, nodding his acquiescence, "...you're right. Damn it, we've been so foolish. We only wanted to make the Crusader acknowledge and be proud of us. We only follow his will. His truth, his reasonings, his teachings...we devote ourselves to following the path he's laid out for us. We took his enemies to be our enemies. We thought...we  _believed_  Aria T'Loak was his enemy, and so we acted accordingly. We didn't...perceive the error in that logic. We just acted."

"...and now 30 people are dead," Miranda deadpanned, arms crossed, "Not much to show for it, unfortunately."

Mankins nodded meekly, and in his state, he seemed almost sympathetic. It all seemed so innocent when one looked at it sympathetically. Ignore all the religious connotations and the worship, and all you had were fans trying to make their role model proud by doing what they thought he'd want. Of course, if this was something like buying a skycar for him, that would be fine. But they openly tried to murder Aria T'Loak at the footsteps of Afterlife because they believed their hero wished them to do so, and the result was a carnal bloodbath. Mankins was likely realizing the folly of his institution now, and what it had brought them to. Garrus, for one, could hardly feel sympathetic right now.

 _You brought this on yourself,_ he reasoned,  _just because a friend tells you to shoot up a school, doesn't mean you should do it. And in this case, he only_ _ **thought**_ _Shepard would want this. His_ _ **group**_ _only thought he'd want it. The audacity of these people to use Shepard's name to justify this kind of savagery is just unbelievavble. It beggars belief._

With no further response from Mankins, he crossed his arms, eying the human directly, "All I can say right now is this: do not harass or attack Aria or any of her men again. If you won't do it for me, or for Aria, then do it because Shepard requested it. He not only wants nothing to do with your group, but he doesn't authorize or sanction these actions you've committed. If you truly respect him and his wishes, then you will do this without question. If I find out that you've attacked her or her people again, then I will be forced to bring you in and make you answer for it. Am I understood?"

Mankins slowly looked up, and met Garrus' eyes. The look he found there was one of genuine regret, but it was also laced with another emotion...one the turian couldn't quite identify. Whatever it was, it quickly dissipated, and the man stood straighter, giving him a firm nod, "Very well, Mr. Vakarian. I will inform my people of what you have told us, and that we are to avoid contact with Aria's people at all costs. With luck, you will not hear from us again. If the Crusader does not wish it, then we shall not act. The Crusader commands...we only follow his lead."

 _"The Crusader commands, we only follow his lead."_ Garrus really didn't know whether to feel indifferent to this or not. On one hand, Mankins was at least contrite about what had happened, and was working to fix it. On the other, his insistence on 'following the Crusader's lead', even after Garrus had dropped a blatant hint as to Shepard not wanting to be involved, grated on his nerves. He knew this organization was eating his friend up, making it seem like their every action was one on his part. But if they didn't want to drop their faith, there wasn't much Garrus could do to stop them. In the end, they're willingness to back off the Aria issue was a small victory, but the largest he would get at this point in time.

There hadn't been much else to say after that. The squad had been eager to move on after that, and Garrus had been right there with them. After saying goodbye to Mankins, they took their leave, heading out of the compound and for their skycar so they could inform Aria of their success, get a quick round of drinks at Afterlife, and then head back to the  _Normandy_. They tried their best to ignore the creepy stares they got on their way out, but it was difficult knowing just who was watching them. In the end, they couldn't have been more eager to get out of crazy town and back to their ship.

Garrus, however, was still being eaten up by it all. What he'd seen in there, what these people were doing and how they were going about it...it rubbed him the wrong way. He'd spent many years as a detective in C-Sec, and as a result, he considered him one of the best. His father had taught him many tricks of the trade, and he'd use his expertise to his advantage during the war to draw up conclusions and evidence others would dismiss or just plainly miss.

But right now, his detective's intuition was screaming at him that something was seriously wrong with this entire mess. He had felt it walking into the compound, he'd felt it talking to Mankins, and he'd felt it on the steps of Afterlife. None of it felt right. There was a piece of the puzzle he was missing, and it made him feel uneasy. Whatever the Shepardists were doing...it was bad. Whoever the Samaritan was and what their goal was...it was bad.

The whole thing just reeked of dark and dirty. And whatever that was, Garrus was now determined to put it down. He would not allow everything Shepard and his friends had built to crumble because of overzealous fans. No, he would get to the bottom of this Samaritan, and he would end this at the source.

Because if his detective's intuition told him anything...its that cults rarely stay peaceful for long.

* * *

 _Shepard Residence, Rannoch - January 10, 2188 - An hour and 15 minutes later_.

_It just...won't...budge!_

Relaxing his grip on the ignition box, he lowered the spanner he was holding and let it drop to the floor next to him with a clang. Exhaling abruptly and with a measure of frustration, he grabbed the rag on his right and patted his face down, wiping it clear of the sweat that had built up there.

Two weeks on from the housewarming party, and Shepard was desperately finding things for himself to do. The first day had been spent cleaning up after the party with Tali, and they had both spent most of the next day in bed, alternating between sex, sleep and watching movies. Eventually, Tali had migrated to her new workshop to begin configuring it to her liking, and Shepard had largely been left to find his own things to do around the house. In the end, he had chosen exercise, watching movies, looking for jobs in the capital and working on his skycar. Today, it was working on his skycar...mainly upgrading his ignition box so it could run on 1 litre of liquid eezo instead of the 3 that it currently used. It was having...very little success.

In truth, despite the technical and mechanical training he was given as an N7, he wasn't a combat engineer or a mechanic. That was Tali's specialization, not his. So when it came to upgrading their skycar, he was completely useless. Dumb as a doornail. In reality, he had only really taken up the project out of boredom, and not because he thought he could actually achieve anything with it. The two of them were itching for things to do, and aside from Tali going out for Admiralty Board meetings every day, neither of them were really doing much aside from watching movies, sleeping, having sex, cuddling, eating, and repeating all of the above. They needed a semblance of purpose in their lives. And aside from getting married and going to admiralty meetings, they didn't really have one.

Of course, Shepard knew exactly what he wanted that would fix this issue. Not just a job of course, but the one thing he knew Tali wanted, but that he couldn't provide her. The one thing he wanted, but that she couldn't biologically have with him. When it came down to it, neither Tali or Shepard really had the courage to ask the other for their thoughts on this mutual issue, and none of them brought it up as a consequence. It was a question that would eternally linger between them until it was addressed. And whether they liked it or not-

His thoughts were broken by the sound of his omni-tool going off. Wandering if it was Aria again, he lifted up to find the caller ID actually belonged to that of Garrus. Scratching his beard, he grabbed his spanner and his rag and rolled himself out from under the skycar, having propped himself ontop of a trolley board, the skycar suspended in the air on a large rectangular platform that lifted the vehicle off the floor. Wiping his hands with the dirty rag, he then carelessly tossed it aside, sitting up to receive the call, leaning back enough so that he could lean against the skycar's bonnet. Satisfied that he was comfortable, he brought up the contact request, and accepted it.

The screen on his omni-tool immediately framed Garrus' face, who looked to be using the terminal in the captain's quarters on the  _Normandy_. The turian was actually wearing a proper tunic instead of his armor, the green and blue shirt and black pants strangely looking like they fit the turian's self-image. He smiled at seeing his friend, as did the turian, "Garrus. Been a few weeks."

Garrus chuckled, the connection distorting for a brief moment, causing his the image of his friend's face, among other visual artifacts, to blur and warp for a few seconds before snapping back into focus. The galaxy still hadn't fully recovered from the war, and among many of the casualties was the comm buoy network. The Reapers had destroyed much of the subspace communication infrastructure needed for the extranet and communications, and it was taking a while for it all to return to normal. Communications between homeworlds and critical planets were reestablished pretty quickly, as that had been the priority, while the others were being restored far more slowly. Garrus must have just passed through one of these gaps in the comm nets.

Waiting for the connection quality to return to standard, the turian replied, "Been busy. Had all your guests to drop off, among other things. I may have stopped by one of the nearby geth cafes for a coffee, too. I hear the geth are great at making coffee." The sarcasm in Garrus' voice was a breath of fresh air for Shepard, who grinned in response.

"I would know a thing or too about geth coffee. I live on their homeworld," Shepard shot back. Finally, after an exchange of laughs between the two, Shepard felt the tension between them reach its peak, which the unspoken question between them hanging in the air like a loose thread, one both were eager to rectify. Finally, Shepard broke the silence, sighing as he rubbed his face, "Tell me Garrus...what's the situation? How...how bad is it?"

_How far has this gone?_

There was a low groan on Garrus' end, the suspiration of breath sounding resigned and malignant and tired, "I guess...I should start by asking if you want the good or bad news first."

"Does the bad outweigh the good?"

"You know it does. It  _always_  does."

A nod. Followed by a reciprocal groan, an idle finger scratching the rim of his nose, "Fine. The bad news."

"They're deranged," the spectre offered straight up, hitting home straight away with no warm up, "I went in with a small squad. I expected misguided idiots, but what we saw..." in that moment, Garrus visibly began to reconsider whether he should continue, knowing how it would affect his friend and former commander, "Shepard, you don't need to hear this. All you need to-"

"Tell me," he insisted, his tone brokering no debate or objection. He needed to hear this. He had to. What these people were doing, and why. He needed the full damage report, "Everything you saw."

Quiet filled the line long enough for Shepard to think Garrus was unwilling to go any further. Just as he was about to prompt his continuance, the turian pre-empted him, "What they had in there was...nothing less than a shrine. A...a temple. They had pictures of you all over the walls, they had a replica of your armor propped up like somekind of archaelogical discovery...they had combat footage of you playing on every available vidscreen. Children running around with figurines of you and us. Preachers calling you 'Crusader' and 'Savior'. And it gets worse...what they had going on was practically a religion. Its gone from admiration and remembrance to divinity. They even refer to their organization now as the 'Faith of the Crusader.' They don't identify you by name anymore: they just call you 'the Crusader', whatever that means."

Shepard just wordlessly listened as Garrus ticked off every single thing he saw. The more and more he heard, the fiercer the pressure in his chest, squeezing at his stomach and heart and lungs. He found he had to lick his lips nervously, and the urge to itch his beard intensified. Any attempt his body conjured up for a distraction was satisfied, because in the end, what Shepard was hearing...it was a terrifying prospect.

"Now, the good news. Sort of," Garrus continued, "From what I've seen based on reports of all the other Shepardist cells, the development into a religion seems to be isolated to Omega: all the rest are limited to cultist behaviour, and hasn't developed beyond that. From what we can tell, based on relevant statistics that EDI has analyzed, Omega's population size, combined with the lack of a police force, a proper education system, limited extranet access and the close proximity of the population itself to each other is what resulted in this cell turning into a religion. So, for now, this hasn't spread. I've also successfully talked to their leader, Mankins, and he's agreed to cease any attacks on Aria and her men: doesn't look like they had the means to mount such assaults anyway, and I think the Talons are more than equipped to put them down if they try anything. There's also another piece of information you might like to know."

While not particularly inspirited, especially considering what he had just learned, Shepard wanted to know everything he could. He'd always been a sucker for information, as knowledge was power, and the more of it he had, the better prepared he was. Being in the military, especially as special forces, being fully aware of your enemy and their capabilities was essential to survival, "What is it?"

"We've got a name for this mysterious new leader," Garrus declared, "Well, an alias for like, but its more than what we had before. He goes by the name 'Good Samaritan.' Not sure if that's supposed to a genuine attempt at sounding pious, because quite frankly I'm not sure why else anybody would choose an alias based off an act of common sense. The Council is certain this Samaritan is based on Illium, and if that's any indication, we'll be able to keep tabs on him. If things get hot, they'll send in a spectre to put a stop to it. In restrospect...there's nothing to worry about. Yes, this stuff with worship and the borderline religious doctrine is a bit worrisome, but it doesn't seem like anything that'll last. The attack at Afterlife is of some concern, but we both know Aria can handle herself. I'm going to follow up this lead on the Samaritan, and hopefully get a crack at finding out who they are. From what Mankins told me, he claims to know you...personally."

Shepard frowned deeply at that, troubled by the idea of the person behind this whole mess knowing him.  _Sure, there's Conrad...but his ousting by the Shepardists has been confirmed at this point, so the Samaritan can't be him. So who else? Conrad was the only fan I knew of that had met me personally. All the rest...not a single one of them would be capable of this! None of them would_ _ **want**_ _to do this._

"Shepard?" he had fallen silent for a minute or so, prompting Garrus to repeat his unheard question. Blinking, he turned back to look at the turian with a weak smile.

"Its okay, Garrus...I was just thinking," he offered in reassurance, although he was fairly sure the turian wouldn't buy it. He knew him far too well, including Shepard's tendency to say he was fine when internally he was a spiralling inferno of agitation, "I'm sorry I put in the position of having to see that first hand. I just...needed to know. And now that I do, I have no idea what to do with that information. I  _can't_  do anything with it. These people are blowing this way out of proportion. I'm not looking to be deified."

"I hear you," Garrus replied understandingly, "Which is why you shouldn't worry about it. These people haven't done anything harmful or dangerous yet. You're on Rannoch, and from what I've heard, the Shepardist presence there is noticeable, but minimal. The rest is outside your purview and theirs. I wouldn't think about it too much. Let me, the spectre, deal with it. I'll chase up this lead, and see where it goes. Who knows...maybe I'll find this Samaritan and give him a firm talking to. I might even take him to the very spot where Garrus Vakarian beat 'the Crusader' in a test of marksmanship."

Shepard scoffed, feeling his spirits lifted somewhat, "Emasculation ought to bring down my reputation a notch."

"See? All sorted," came the turian's mirthful reply. After another moment or two, Garrus exhaled loudly, talons tapping his desk with a light rap, "Well...I better get knowing. Just wanted to give that update you wanted. Just relax and stay out of this, Shepard. You and Tali are getting married...that's all you should be concerned with. Nothing, not even a band of crazed fanatics, is going to put a damper on that. I'll talk down the Samaritan, swoop up all your fame and repute, lock up a few more baddies, and be back to Rannoch in time to watch two of my best friends get bonded and start a new life together. That's what we are, right? We've kicked the shit out of worse enemies before and it didn't bother us."

Shepard's smile, while diminishing ever so slightly, did find Garrus' aplomb attitude communicable, and he nodded, "You're right, Garrus. Perhaps I'm just overthinking it. I'd just be happier knowing I can marry Tali without an army of overzealous fans rushing around the galaxy killing people in my name. Nobody needs that."

"We've got a handle on it," Garrus replied calmly, smiling all the way, "I've got some reports to fill out before the  _Normandy_  reaches the Citadel, Shepard. Catch up more later."

"See you, Garrus," he stated in addendum, tapping his omni-tool once to cut off the connection, before turning off the unit completely. He sat there for a few minutes, just thinking, arms crossed as he mulled over what Garrus had told him.

_These Shepardists are...completely crazy. Non compos mentis. But Garrus is right too...there's nothing I can do about it, and allowing it to interfere with my life isn't going to help me or Tali. And all I want is to give Tali my full attention now: that was the whole point of me retiring from the military. Leaving it all behind. If I just keep worrying about what these cultists might do...none of it will matter. I can't change the fact they exist. All I can do is wait them out and hope this dies off eventually. That its just a phase. That's the most I can expect._

But that constantly nagging question would never leave him be.  _And what if they don't?_

Damn his thoughts. Constantly miring him in a pointless maelstrom of indecision and agonization. He wished they would go away. Leave him in peace.

Thankfully, one of the belligerents in his mental conflict would prove to an excellent obstruction to these thoughts, her voice coming from the doorway and derailing his unwanted train of thought, "Want to take a break?"

Turning from where he was perched against the skycar, he could see Tali standing at the doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the frame. Just seeing her immediately soothed him, which was something he found equal parts comforting and confusing in a paradoxical way. He wasn't quite sure, but there was an aura about her that almost instantly made him feel better, alleviating him of worry. When she wasn't near, he was prone to agitation and temperamental swings in attitude, but when she was close to him...all of it went away. The amount of times he had snapped at doctors prodding him only for Tali to calm him down almost immediately were innumerable.

Even now, he felt his worries disappearing as he left them in the ether, a warm smile returning to his mouth, "Yeah...that'd be nice." Standing up, he patted himself down, excess dust cascading off of him like a sheet, doing so until he was positive he was clear of it. Walking up to her, he gently tapped his forehead against her faceplate before grabbing one of her hands, his fingers fidgeting with hers. His smile widened at the band tied around her wrist: the same one he had given her as a proposal for their bonding, one which Tali had gleefully accepted. A symbol of their unified strength together. One ceasing to exist without the other. And a recognition that she would soon be his wife.

"Anything you want to do?" Tali asked, head cocked at him playfully. He recognized the sultriness in her tone, and was about to respond with his usual coy remark, but remembered just how much he wanted to do something that differed from the norm. They had spent most of their days doing the same thing, so he figured they could do something a little more productive...like organizing what they wanted to do next.

Perhaps planning the next stage in their lives?

"Maybe later," he stated instead, answering her unasked question. Before the confusion in her posture could turn into a question however, he continued, "Perhaps we could take the time to begin...planning our ceremony? Go over the guest list, maybe?"

After a few seconds, Tali laughed, before nodding, "Sure. I'd like that. Let's do that."

She took his hand, and the two walked out of the garage and towards the kitchen area as both of their thoughts were filled with ideas of how their bonding ceremony would go, who they wanted there, and where it would take place. The thought filled them both with joy, surrealistic imagination and unincumbered excitement. They had a marriage to plan.

* * *

 _Abandoned Skycar Factory, Nos Astra, Illium - January 10, 2188 - 40 minutes later_.

_Sigma-Hotel 110: We received your report, Bau. Sorry it took us two weeks to process, but the shit we've been dealing with here is astronomical. We've got spectres deployed all over Council space at the moment, and personally getting time to read your report has been nothing short of hell: doesn't help Vakarian and Churchill spirited off to Omega to check up on a report of Shepardists trying to kill Aria T'Loak. Nasty business. Anyway, I've read your report...what you've noted is fairly concerning. Says here you've identified the leader?_

_Raptor-Indigo 004: Yes. Calls himself the Good Samaritan. Have attached recommendations on how to respond to increased Shepardist cult activity. Please advise._

_Sigma-Hotel 110: Haven't had a chance to discuss this with the Council: will have to pass this up the chain and see what they think. Advise seems sound, although I do believe the response could be more toned down. Intercepting civilian transports without probable cause will put us in a world of shit, especially with how much flak the Council is getting. I know we're spectres, but look at the bigger picture. The spectres are under enough scrutiny as it is without seemingly raiding random transports and seizing bank accounts unlawfully. Unless you can come up with probable cause, its untouchable._

_Raptor-Indigo 004: The evidence is there. Use it._

_Sigma-Hotel 110: You and I both know this is inadmissible. This information was stolen. No judge in any court in the galaxy is going to let that fly. They'll toss it out. Let's face it, we don't have a case. Until the Shepardists do something illegal, they're untouchable. I'm sorry. We'll just have to wait and see what the Council says. Baby steps._

_Raptor-Indigo 004: Understood. Advise on how to proceed?_

_Sigma-Hotel 110: Has further reconnaissance and observation yielded anything new?_

_Raptor-Indigo 004: Nothing. No new developments. Have not attempted further information gathering from the source, deemed to be too risky. Samaritan appears to have purchased an M-29 Incisor semi-automatic rifle: intent for this weapon is unknown, possibly recreational, possibly for self defense: prior hinted military service could indicate proficiency with use of the weapon, have marked down as watch-and-act._

_Sigma-Hotel 110: Given the circumstances, continue observational activities and report back on a need-to-know basis. Keep your distance, and do not attempt contact unless instructed to do so. I'll inform the Council and see what they want done next. Until you here from me, as far as you are concerned, orders have not changed. Message back to confirm compliance._

_Raptor-Indigo 004: Solid copy. Understood._

Deactivating his omni-tool, Jondam Bau licked his lips as he crouched behind the corrogated steel railing of the abandoned factory's ceiling, the opaque surface hiding him from the view of those below or anybody looking. He blinked twice to wet his eyes, before pulling out a datapad from his satchel and looking over his notes. As he had stated to Spectre Edorev in his communique with her, he had noted no new suspicious activity. Shepardist operations at their headquarters were already minimalistic, and with that taken into account, getting new, raw data on the goings-on inside that structure were difficult to come by without infiltrating the facility again, and he had already ruled that out on the principle that it was too risky to try again. As such, he had no new avenue from which to proceed, allowing the Samaritan to delicately camouflage his ventures.

Bau eyed his Raptor rifle one last time before grabbing his binoculars and peeking over the railing one more time, bringing the visual enhancement goggles to his eyes. He went over the many floors of the building one more time, looking for anything that might suggest an iota of dubious misdeeds going on inside. But as had been the case for him multiple times before, his recon turned up nothing, and so he was forced to lower his binoculars, crouching back down so he was hidden from sight once more, the salarian growing frustrated with his lack of progress.

_Would be easier to kill the man. End the threat he poses. But orders are orders._

Bau wouldn't call himself a reckless man, or even one that was prone to random action. He didn't enjoy battle or combat nearly as such as his peers did, and he didn't revel in doing what he had to do in service to the Council and the galaxy. His work in the STG had taught him that all actions have purpose, and that so long as the action is justified and leads to a beneficial outcome, then it was worth it. STG was an organization of necessity, and thus was run and manned by men and women of marvellous intellectual quality and stature. STG didn't recruit soldiers, it recruited patriots. Those who rose above the rank and file to embrace the tactile nature of intelligence, the responsibility one had in maintaining the greater good, and in understanding that combat was a last resort, not a requirement. His STG work was what got him initiated into the Spectres to begin with.

And every fibre of his training, everything the STG had taught him, right down to the age old STG maxim of 'prepare for trouble, and failing that, create trouble for others', was telling him the Samaritan was a recognizable threat, and one that needed to be eliminated. If this was an STG operation, he'd already be dead. But unfortunately, he didn't answer to or serve the STG anymore. And the Council was a far less compromising beast than the clandestine black ops group he used to serve. He would just have to hope they made the right decision in the end.

It had been a long two weeks for Bau. In reality, every day was considered long for a salarian. As a species whose average lifespan was 40, Bau's species didn't have the gift of time that humans, turians or quarians had. They didn't get to live for centuries on end like the asari and krogan. This meant that salarians were privy to establishing themselves intellectually and academically in the world far sooner, becoming university graduates as young as nine years old, meaning salarians matured faster than any other race in the galaxy, with the exception of the vorcha. Their hyperactive metabolism is what allowed this to happen, shortening their lifespan while also making them incredibly intelligent, granting them photographic memories and one hour sleep cycles. For this very reason, days were long to a salarian. One hour sleep made sure the other 23 hours would be spent awake and active, and a constant need to be doing something meant that sitting around would grate on their patience after a while.

This was Bau's predicament. His species' metabolism was both a gift and a curse. While he sat here doing nothing, it was beginning to get fidgety, but his photographic memory meant that he remembered every single intricate detail of the Shepardist headquarters, where people were, what the Samaritan had done and was doing, and the exact time in which he received messages. In this case, ten minutes had passed since he received Edorev's reply.

Two weeks was a long time to go silent, especially for Bau. While he was used to going on radio silence for extended periods of time during high-risk ops, those were by necessity and only to be broken when crucial mission intel needed to be transmitted or passed on in some way. The information he had on the Samaritan and his operations had been of that nature, at least in his mind, and it had taken two weeks for OPSCOM to finally muster a response. And instead of seeing his point of view, he was regulated to more observational recon, thus making the two weeks he had spent waiting seem like a waste of time.

But he hadn't become a spectre for nothing. Nobody is admitted into the Spectres without a reason for being there. Even Saren Arterius and Tela Vasir, for all their faults, were lethal combatants. Saren was one of their finest operatives up until his treachery, and Tela Vasir, while a criminal, had been a renowned and feared commando of the Asari Republics' Ultramarines commando unit, which was boasted as the most elite of their special forces, next to the Serrice Guard. Every Spectre earned their title through long terms of service or by making a name for themselves. And through that title, they had learned patience. It was part of why they were so effective as a force. And Bau had learnt that lesson well...so he waited. Bided his time. Used it to catalogue and detail every single piece of information he had found, making sure to transmit to the Citadel in encrypted packages, piggy-backing them off comm buoy sub-channels to decrease the chances of detection or interception.

Discretion was key.

So he waited. Two weeks he waited for a reply, and then he got one, and it was a temporary standing order to wait a bit more. So he did, ever the spook, waiting in the shadows, eyes tracing his target and waiting for that moment when he got the order to withdraw, arrest...or kill. It was all a waiting game now.

In the two weeks he had spent waiting, the Samaritan had hardly left the building, but he hadn't remained idle. Just three weeks ago, the man had turned the Shepardists from a cult with a few cells into a interconnected, galaxy-wide network. Their organization had been rebranded into the 'Faith of the Crusader', and their faith just kept spreading, with disturbing reports arising on his own homeworld, Sur'Kesh, of their activities. And now, nearly a month onwards, they had expanded even further. Just as Bau had predicted, the Samaritan had ended the Shepardist contract with the ERCS for security and protection, and established a sub-section of the cult dedicated to that same security. Armed guards surrounded the structure at all times, ranging from humans to Bau's own people, batarians to krogan.

While a few civilians in tunics holding shotguns and a few rifles were not what the Citadel Conventions would deem to be 'militant behaviour', it was enough to irritate Bau, because the implications were obvious. How long until security turned into bullying and harassment campaigns? Shaking down businesses who didn't subscribe to their dogma. Killing people who 'strayed from the path.' Bau had heard of it before. It had happend with the League of One. It had happened with Cerberus. It happened with Tanculus' cult. In all three instances, good intentions turned into militant behaviour, which then translated into violence and death. How long would it be until the Shepardists were so well armed, that they could actually pose a threat?

Give a fanatic a weapon, and you can be sure he'll use it. Happens every single time.

It didn't end there. The Samaritan, in his effort to 'increase security', had even gone to the length of hiring supplementary RAGNAROK-series mech auxiliaries, with crates stamped with the 'HKDS' (Hahne-Kedar Defense Solutions) logo stamped on them. Crates filled with LOKI skirmish mechs, FENRIS rapid assault dogs and HEL-class security drones were delivered practically to their front door, and deployed within days of their arrival. No YMIR mechs were bought, but considering that they were incredibly effective, had a high fuel economy and were largely used for assaults rather than defense, it wasn't surprising the Samaritan hadn't wasted time buying them. Not to mention buying a few YMIR mechs would begin to arise suspicion from the NAPD, which the Shepardists no doubt wanted to avoid.

For every day the Samaritan was left to his own devices, he was building up his strength. Gathering assets. Consolidating power and spreading his influence to the vulnerable. His ascendancy was an unstoppable tsunami that was washing through the galaxy like a raging tempest, and if it wasn't interrupted soon, they could very well be looking down the sights of a bitter and empowered new cult. And the blood they will shed won't be limited to the Terminus Systems...it'll be everywhere. Every system, every homeworld.

_We just defeated the Reapers over a year ago. A cultist uprising would be devastating._

Minutes ticked by like clockwork. Then an hour. Finally, four hours passed, and he was no closer to receiving his new orders. Just as he was lowering his binoculars from checking the Shepardist skyscraper for activity again, his omni-tool finally pinged. Punching on a dried snack he had brought with him, he opened the contact's ID just to confirm it was from OPSCOM. Lo and behold, it was. What caught his eye was that the message had been fast tracked from the Citadel: it had the usual encryption, but had been sent through the primary channel of the comm buoy network, which was extremely unusual behaviour for the spectres. The only time they would do this...is if the reply was of a critical nature. An emergency message.

Quickly opening up the message, he read the corresponding message. His blinked four times, wetting his eyes again and, for the first time since he had infiltrated the Samaritan's quarters and seen the information stored there, he felt an emotion other than determination.

Shock.

_Sigma-Hotel 110: PRIORITY MESSAGE. REPEAT, PRIORITY. If you get this Raptor-Indigo, you have new orders. Report received of an attack on Sur'Kesh, near the capital of Talat. Minimal civilian casualties. Unidentified cultist members attempted to assassinate Dalatrass Linron during a brood ritual celebration. At least two of her guards were killed, but the rest were able to kill many of the cultists and extract the dalatrass safely. She suffered an injury to her right cranial lobe, has a fractured hernia and a broken arm. Cultist members have yet to be fully identified, but a leaked report from the STG suggests the Sur'Kesh cell of the Faith of the Crusader were behind the attack. As of 1600 hours this morning, the alert rating has been raised to WATCH AND ACT. Raptor-Indigo, by proclomation and special order of the Council, you are to apprehend and arrest the man known as the 'Good Samaritan' to be brought to the Citadel pending further investigation, where he can be questioned as to the actions of his organization. You are to do this as clandestinely as possible. Leave no trail._

Hesitating for a few seconds, he typed out his response.

_Raptor-Indigo 004: Solid copy on that. PRIORITY MESSAGE received and confirmed. Subject 'Good Samaritan' to be arrested and brought back to the Citadel for questioning. Leave nothing concrete to tie his disappearance to the Council. Understood. Will update when subject is in my custody._

_Sigma-Hotel 104: Understood, Raptor-Indigo. OPSCOM out._

And with that, it was done. The order was given. Bau was finally going to arrest the Samaritan and bring him in. End the threat he posed and get to the root of this sprouting evil so it may be neutralized at its origin. Whoever this...man, was...they would get to the bottom of it. And Bau felt relieved that the Council had finally done the right thing. A pity it took a brazen attack on a salarian political official to spark their interest.

_Unbelievable. To attack a representative as respected as Dalatrass Linron? In public, in front of all those spectators...they're lucky she isn't dead. Very badly wounded, yes, but she'll recover. If she had died...the STG would have waged total war on their organization. I've seen what happens when the STG systematically sets out to obliterate a target...I've been part of those operations myself. They don't leave a trail, and they don't take mercy. They going until there's nothing left for the enemy to come back with. The STG ends wars before they start, and if they can't, then they'll make damn sure to end the war._

Again, the Shepardists should feel lucky Linron is alive. Mostly.

In didn't matter much now. Bau had his directive, and now a clear goal. Snatching up his rifle, knowing he wouldn't get to use it today, he holstered the weapon before using his photographic memory to recollect every last detail of the Samaritan's quarters. With this in mind, he began to mentally set up his plan for capturing him even as he packed up his stuff and made his way towards the HQ building, making sure to activate his tactical cloak as soon as he hit the ground.

* * *

 _Shepardist Headquarters, Nos Astra, Illium - January 10, 2188 - 23 minutes later_.

_Drink. I need a drink. And those damn pills._

The Good Samaritan was in a bad mood. Not because the week had gone badly: far from it. In fact, this week had seen the Shepardists perform better than any other week preceding it. Their latest shipment of security mechs and drones from Hahne-Kedar had just come in, with the last of the ERCS detachment they had hired being laid off. The Samaritan knew little of legal contracts, especially the sort that the Illium senate allowed, but the team of asari lawyers he had hired on their behalf had made short work of the ERCS contract Conrad had bound their organization too, leaving them thousands of credits in the process, more than enough to finance their new security arrangements. The Faith had four ships to their name, their organization was now legally recognized as a business (at least on Illium), Jenna and Conrad were adapting to their new roles quite comfortably and with less and less complaints, their numbers were growing and their operations were expanding. They couldn't have been doing better.

No, the Samaritan was in a bad mood because somebody...that somebody being a salarian named Amarp Tijie, leader of their relatively new Sur'Kesh cell, had jumped the gun. Had been stupid enough to miscontrue the Samaritan's intent and authorize a strike that had put the Crusader's disciples in a very perilous position.

Just two weeks ago, Mankins' Omega cell had been involved in a massacre outside Afterlife that had cost them 30 people. They had tried to kill  _Aria fucking T'Loak_ of all people. The Samaritan, knowing very little of his surroundings at the moment due to his memory loss, had been forced to do some research on this Aria, and the more he read, the more he had fumed. Attacking the pirate queen of the Terminus was a sure way to start a war. And the Omega cell, being the fastest growing of the sects, if destroyed would be an incredible loss for the Faith. So, the Samaritan, in an attempt to stall further attacks of this nature, had told Amarp  _explicitly_ to hold his position and not have any more demonstrations until he deemed it to be safe to do so. After all, on a Council homeworld, one had to be extremely careful where they stepped, lest they put their foot in a pond of eels.

And Amarp chose to do just that. Word had been circulating around that Linron, Dalatrass of the Annos Basin, had been caught in a political scandal during the Reaper War that was spreading rumors that she might be removed from political office, and possibly even as head of her bloodline. The scandal had led to a severe wedge between the government and the military, with the STG, led by the famous Major Kirrahe (now a Colonel), defying Union orders to join the UGC after the genophage was cured. The writing on the wall was obvious: Linron had, somehow, tried to obstruct the genophage cure in some way, failed, tried to deny Union aid to the UGC out of spite, and as a result, the military almost launched a coup d'etat. Amarp, noticing that the genophage cure was something the Crusader had supported, perceived this to mean that Linron was an enemy of the Crusader and, therefore, of the Faith.

Just as Mankins' group perceived Aria to be an enemy. What happened next was obvious, and the consequences disastrous.

So while the day had been great...the last hour had been precarious. A Council political leader had been attacked in a public assassination attempt. Before, the Council could do nothing to his people...but now? Now they had all the ammunition they needed, and he had to do damage control before all he built fell apart.

_Idiots. Trying to destroy it all before its even started. How can I redeem myself if these imbeciles won't follow my lead?_

It was taking a while, but parts of his memory were returning, however nebulous. He could remember more of his military service, principally regarding his training, some places he fought, and even his service branch. He had tried searching up his profile on the Alliance military website, but without a keyword, it would be looking for a needle in a haystack. In the end, he had given up, satisfied with what he had discovered. He was proficient with a knife, knew how to use a sniper rifle, assault rifle and pistol, and served in the marines. He had fought during the Skyllian Blitz, and one other battle he couldn't remember. His recollection went totally blank after that. The small tidbits he was learning frustrated him: he wanted to learn more, but he couldn't. His own name, what he had done in his life, who his friends were, his family...he couldn't remember any of it. Just insignificant sections that held no relevance to him.

Until he found out his own name...he was just...the 'Good Samaritan'. He had no other name. It wasn't just an alias, it was  _who_ he was. As a person. As a name.

His headache spiked again, and he growled in anger, rubbing his temple as he stepped up his pace, going from a brisk pace to a fast walk, his skull throbbing achingly as it demanded a reprieve from the building discomfort. He had, once again, neglected his medication. He had been focusing so much on expanding the Shepardists and running damage control on the Sur'Kesh situation that he had forgotten to take his daily dosage. As such, the migraine he feared would return was beginning to rear its ugly head, and he needed to get to those damn pills before it came back.

He couldn't really remember  _why_ he got these intense, crippling migraines either. Was it part of his long-term memory loss? Why his recollection was nearly non-existent? All he knew was that, just under two months ago, he had woken up in an SAAF rehab facility with severe migraine issues. Not even the doctors had known what it is until they could finally prescribe him something for it. His first thought had been L2 implants, but he neither had one, nor was he a biotic in the first place. If he was, he couldn't summon them, at least. So that was off the table.

And for all the things he could and couldn't remember...he knew Shepard. The Crusader. Somehow he knew him, and that he had to redeem himself for something. Obviously he must have done something bad in his life, and it had to do with Shepard. Did he wrong this man in some way? Perhaps he was his enemy at some point? What if he had been somekind of war criminal or Cerberus soldier in his past life? There were countless possibilities, and none of them satisifed him. In the end, it didn't matter. He felt compelled to help this man recognize his greatness, and it everything to do with redemption. Whatever the case may be, he had to do that.

He practically slammed his fist into the haptic interface of his door to get it to open, and stormed inside the moment it had. He gave a quick glance around his room, his nose picking up the faint smell of ozone, but making nothing of it. His focus was completely on getting his medication, and he made a beeline for his bed, where his bag rested, and where the aforementioned dihydroergotamine was packed inside.

He stopped just short of the doorway, sniffing again. It was that smell again: the one he smelt at the doorway. That very subtle whiff of ozone, except this time it was more intense. At that moment, he was getting the distinct feeling of his eyes watching him, like somebody else was in the room with him. With a frown, unable to help himself, he turned around slowly, his eyes tracing the room. The scent of ozone got stronger as he faced the kitchen area, so that's where he focused his attention.

Then he noticed something. A flicker. A slight distortion of the wall, like it was bent out of place, warped as the space-time continuum seemed to fracture around it. He squinted his eyes a tad harder, and saw it flicker again, but this time, more of the wall appeared to distort, forming the outline of an object. A tall, slender object that stretched up and was almost 5'9 in height, and had two-

It flickered again. His eyes focused, making out more of the object. It was bigger now. No,  _closer._

Another flicker. Finally, it clicked in his head. He wasn't looking at a distortion of space-time. He wasn't looking at an object. It was a person. And they were  _cloaked_.

In confirmation of this fact, the cloak dropped in a dazzling display of sparkling electricity and flipping active camouflage plating, light going from being absorbed to being reflected as it should be, the sight like a magic trick a faux-magician would pull when somebody disappear and reappear. In a split second, the person who had been shrouded in invisibility had been revealed, the slender form of a salarian, roughly his own height, appearing before him.

The first thing the Samaritan noted was that the salarian was not only wearing combat armor, but had a Raptor sniper rifle holstered on his back, and a M-3 predator pistol at his hip. The salarian's posture, being a defensive stance, and his tactical cloak, meant he was an infiltrator of some sort...possibly ex-military. His featureless brown-greyish armor meant he wasn't part of any mercenary company or PMC he knew of.

"Samaritan," the salarian identified immediately upon dropping his cloak, holding up a hand to halt the human in case he attempted an approach. His hand came to rest on his pistol, an action that told him this salarian was expecting a fight of somekind. That couldn't have meant anything good, "Do not move. Do not attempt to call for help. I am here to place you under arrest by the power invested in me as a member of the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance branch of the Citadel. I could read you your rights, but I'm not legally obligated to do so."

The Samaritan's eyes widened in surprise, but also in realization.  _A Spectre. Of course. The Sur'Kesh incident. The Council certainly didn't waste anytime coming after me and ordering my arrest. But how did he get here so-?_

 _Ah. Now it makes sense. They've had a spectre watching me this entire time. The attack on Sur'Kesh was just an excuse. This salarian has probably been watching me and my organization for days...maybe even weeks...by now. The Council truly is desperate to shut us up._  The idea made the Samaritan inwardly chuckle, amused by the reaction he was getting from the powerful governments that ran the galaxy. The group would never have received this much recognition under Verner. With his help, they were finally getting noticed. He must have been doing something right.

Then his internal levity died as he remembered what this spectre was here to do. The Council had their excuse, and now they were acting. This spectre was going to take the Samaritan away from his followers: probably lock him away in some facility in the middle of nowhere to silence the dissent he had sowed. Everything he had worked for, to exalt the Crusader and bring justice to the galaxy, would be for nought if he allowed this to happen. Without the Crusader, the Council and their members would continue to run roughshod over their citizens, silencing their voice and denying the Crusader his right to rule over them.

His truth must not be silenced. He was the Savior. The Samaritan was his voice.

"No..." he mumbled, before turning his gaze away from the hand at the salarian's hip, eyes meeting those of the amphibian creature infront of him, "Surely you know I won't allow that to happen."

The spectre nodded, totally unsurprised, almost as if he had expected this exact reaction, "Suspected such a response. Personality indicates ability to hinder arrest. No matter: you must answer for the crimes of your subordinates. The incident on Sur'Kesh shows your organization is out of control. Must be brought to answer. You will come with me. I would prefer you come peacefully, but understand that I have accepted that you most likely won't and that, as a spectre, I am authorized to use reasonable force to subdue and apprehend you. Make this easier for yourself, and your followers, and come quietly."

After a quick analysis, the Samaritan knew full well he didn't stand a chance. He was a man who could hardly remember who he was, and his limited military experience wasn't going to be enough. This was a spectre, and they were feared for a reason. The salarian's slim frame and lack of muscle was a deceptive illusion of the absence of skill. The Samaritan knew that a well-trained salarian soldier could even take down a krogan given the right tools, and this spectre was likely in possession of those exact means. And with the migraine in his head building increasingly, he knew he might be crippled by his own body before he could do any damage to the salarian.

But in the end, something in his head compelled him to fight. To resist this...injustice. He couldn't be held responsible for Amarp's mistakes. He hadn't authorized Linron's assassination. No, the Council didn't care about that.

_They just want to silence me. The Linron assassination attempt is just being used as an excuse. They want me to be a scapegoat, and for the Faith to take the fall. This is a systematic endeavour to destroy my credibility and that of the entire organization, to keep us under wraps. Character assassination at its finest. Well no...I won't let the Council have me. The Crusader's truth must be heard, and I will not allow it to be kept from the public. They must know and be given the choice to decide. This man is an agent of order, and I must sow the chaos to bring down the pillars of their agency._

"Sorry," he braced himself, making sure to give no visual cues as to his intention until it was too late. He couldn't believe he was going to try this, but his mind was made up: there was no choice. He could not, and would not, be muzzled. He was the Good Samaritan! "But I'm afraid... _that won't be possible_!"

He lunged forward, fist soaring up into the air in a soaring uppercut.

As fluid as water, the spectre hopped back, landing delicately on his toes like a spring. The Samaritan's missed by inches, but was doomed to never hit its target. His headache throbbed angrily, enraged at this inflammation, and he groaned, wincing in pain, and therefore temporarily obscuring his eyesight. It was all the time the spectre needed.

Just as his vision returned to full focus, two straightened fingers jabbed into his throat, impacting directly underneath his adam's apple. The Samaritan felt as if an enormous amount of pressure had suddenly expunged all the air from his lungs, windpipe constrictly painfully. He collapsed to one knee, hands cradling his throat as he wheezed sickeningly, the sound like that of metal scraping against metal. He gasped for as much oxygen as possible, and cursed his luck as the salarian's single strike disabled him so easily. He coughed and sputtered as soon as enough air entered in his gaping lungs, drool leaking down his chin as he whooped.

_Can't...go out...this easily...have to...fight..._

"A waste of time," the spectre seemed to smugly proclaim, although from his tone it probably just sounded like a pithy statement of fact, "Are you done with this?"

The spectre was about to receive his answer. He was not going down like this. Not after one hit!

Knowing another uppercut or strike would be too predictable to the salarian, especially given the distance he was away from him, the Samaritan tried to think of something else. Gathering all the saliva he could in his mouth, he snapped his head up, looked the spectre directly in the eyes, and spat with all the force he could muster.

Human spittle flashed through the air for a brief moment before slapping the salarian in the face. The spectre was forced to blink for a few seconds to get it out of his eyes, which gave the Samaritan enough time to stand up, and back away. The spectre would recover quickly however, so he did the next thing that came to his mind: he charged.

He looked up just as the Samaritan barrelled into him, the salarian's slimmer frame easily picked up by the physically tougher human, and he was rammed into the wall behind him. The cardboard rocked barbarously, sending plates and cups inside tumbling out, either smashing on the wooden bench below or on the floor, cardboard doors swinging open as the contents were deposited. The Samaritan held him there as he reached up to poke him in the eyes, but the spectre was, once again, too quick, and had now sufficiently recovered.

Using his freed arms, which the Samaritan had failed to secure in his haste, the salarian reached up and grabbed the back of his head, three fingers grasping at his black hair and quickly yanking back. He aversely howled, the sharp tugging sensation of his hair being tugged causing him to loosen his grip somewhat. Played like a fiddle, the salarian now used this opportunity to bring his other hand down, omni-tool activated, and press it against the Samaritan's chest. The human didn't realize what was happening until it was too late.

He roared as a bolt of electricity shot through him, the agony like that of a bolt of lightning striking his chest. He seized up, vision blacking in and out, body shaking spastically as he shuddered back and forth, unable to control his inhibitions. He felt humiliation as the salarian reared up his foot and roughly kicked him in the stomach, the Samaritan, unable to defend himself as he was electrocuted, sent flying back like a ragdoll, landing in a heap on the floor. The spectre dusted himself like it hadn't been that much of a hassle, awarding his human opponent a pitiful look as his seizure-like behaviour finally stopped, falling still on the floor as the overload that was used on him finally dissipated.

He groaned, his vision still blurred but slowly being restored, and he began to stir as he tried to sit up. Instead, he found himself roughly rolled over onto his belly, the side of his head knicking a broken shard of ceramic plate in the process, missing him enough not to cut deeply, but not enough to avoid a cut. He winced slightly, but otherwise ignored the miniscule feeling of blood droplets leaking from the incision. He felt his hands roughly pulled behind his back, where a pair of cuffs were quickly fitted around his wrists. He grunted weakly, drooling on the floor as the omni-cuffs activated, the magnetic links fastening around his hands extremely uncomfortable.

"None of this was necessary," the salarian reminded him, now having fully secured his target, "Suffered injury for your own persistence. Could have easily been avoided."

He didn't hear the spectre's words, his eyes closed as a single tear dripping down his face. His migraine intensified even further, covering his entire brain in a blanket of crushing pressure that made it feel as if his eyes were going to liquify, wax was going to erupt from his ears and his nose would detonate. It was a torment that made what the salarian did to him in their brief scuffle seem like paper cuts by comparison, and he wanted nothing more than to scream. But he would not grant his enemy the satisfaction of hearing that.

_I've failed...I'm sorry, Crusader...I've failed you...the Council has come to silence us, and I wasn't strong enough to resist them...should have been smarter, for your sake..._

"Bet you feel real stupid now, don't you, corpy?"

He frowned. That voice wasn't coming from his head, but it definitely wasn't the spectre's...it sounded almost human. He pried one eye open, turning to look around the room, but found nobody was there. He recognized the voice...it had been the same one that visited him two weeks ago, when his migraine was also at its worst. He only heard the voice when he forgot to take his medication. Was this the result of that? And who did the voice belong to? It sounded familiar, but...

"Get on your feet, whimp! I'm sick of carrying you around! You heard me! I said  _up_!  _ **UP**_ _!_ "

"Who are you?" he muttered, loud enough for the salarian to hear him.

"What?" the spectre asked, rolling the Samaritan over as he began the process of hoisting him to his feet. He cocked his head at his human prisoner, baffled by the outburst, "Who are you talking to?"

"Talk, talk, talk, talk. You've always been such a pussy, corpy," the voice mocked him, disembodied and seemingly erupting from the walls themselves, taunting him with his defeat. The voices were different everytime, yet he found them strangely familiar all the same, "If you were a  _real_ man, you'd have passed rifle training. Want to prove me wrong?  _ **Then do it!**_ "

Then came a voice he didn't recognize. A low, rumbling voice that didn't come from the walls...but from  _beyond_ them.

"You okay in there?" came the voice, "Something wrong?"

The Samaritan knew he was no longer hearing the voices. They had become a muted haze in his head. No, this voice was real, and he could tell from the spectre's reaction, who had swiftly turned his head to address the new arrival. The door was locked, likely by the salarian himself, but the voice from beyond wasn't deterred by that. The voice didn't sound human or turian or salarian, but rather...it sounded krogan. The Samaritan felt his spirits lifted somewhat.

_Crusader...I may have just been gifted a second chance._

He subtlely eyed the salarian, who now turned to face the Samaritan. He looked troubled, as if this development hadn't been part of his plan, and if that was any indicator, he was determining what he should try to do next. Waiting for him to turn back to the doorway again, the Samaritan drifted his eyes down to his omni-cuffs, and found yet another miracle had been rained down upon him.

The omni-cuffs weren't fastened completely. The salarian must have gotten distracted. Now he just needed to figure out what to do with this information.

As the salarian turned back once more to the door, he turned his eyes to search his surroundings. The first thing that came to mind were the shards of broken plate and glass that littered the floor like a vast field. Obviously the spectre hadn't thought he needed to remove them from his vicinity, likely because his hands were supposed to be tied and unable to grab any, much less use them. That was something in the Samaritan's favor.

The krogan guard queried them once more, and this time his voice was much closer: it was right outside the door. The Shepardist sentinel was obviously getting suspicious for him to get this close, and the spectre noticed this as well. Running one final check on the Samaritan to make sure he was secure, the salarian stood up and slowly, but quietly, unholstered his pistol. The red indicator that appeared on the side illustrated he had switched to incendiary rounds, which was the preferred way to bring down a krogan and circumvent their regenerative ability. As the salarian equipped this, he was moving in the direction of the bedroom, obviously hoping to surprise the krogan once he entered the room. Already, the holo interface of the door was beginning to spin as the guard tried to open it.

It was now or never.

Ignoring his splitting headache, which had effectively immobilized him, he quickly yanked his hands out of the omni-cuffs, bringing his arms out from under him and into the air. Before the salarian could look down to investigate his movement, the Samaritan used his right hand to fumble along the ground. Wrapping his hands around something, he bit through the stinging pain of it cutting into his hand, held it firmly and then swung his arm around, embedding whatever it was directly into the back of the salarian's unprotected left leg.

The spectre, to his credit, did not cry out in pain, but did flinch back, eyes examining the impromptu attack on his leg. He looked genuinely surprised, not expecting that to have happened, and winced as he grabbed the shard impaling his leg and tore it out. There was a spurt of green blood, dribbling all over the floor, and the salarian hopped away, backing against the wall, leaving a small trail of blood behind him, as he reached into his armor in an attempt to procure a packet of medi-gel to treat the wound.

He wasn't given the chance.

The guard chose at that moment to finally enter, the door parting to reveal the a civilian-clothed, red shirted krogan male wielding an M-27 Scimitar shotgun. The krogan took a brief second to notice the quarters' complete disarray, before his eyes finally landed on the Samaritan splayed out on the floor, surrounded with shards of glass and broken ceramics. He raised his shotgun in alarm, eyes widening as he scanned the room. Growling through his headache, he raised his arm and did his best to point directly at the spectre's location.

"There!" he shouted, "This heretic tried to arrest me! Careful, he's a spectre!"

The krogan nodded, spinning around, his shotgun turning with him, eyes downrange. The spectre knew enough to know he was in trouble, and ignoring the pain in his leg, quickly ducked and rolled to the right just as a blast of buckshot whistled past him, shredding the wall that had been behind him, dozens of fragments of metal showering the partition. As the spectre completed his roll, the krogan raised his other hand, omni-tool materializing in a nanosecond, "We've got a disturbance on the 47th floor, Samaritan's quarters! Send backup here now! Lock down the building! They've sent a bloody spectre!"

As he completed his request for reinforcements, the krogan guard turned and fired again, but the spectre once again narrowly dodged the blast, kinetic barrier shimmering as a few stray shavings grazed his shields. He came to rest against the wall just next to the door, breathing heavily as he eyed his opposition.

With an injury in one leg, a krogan guard harassing him with a shotgun, stopping him from reaching the Samaritan, and reinforcements inbound on his position, the Council agent finally realized he was not going to be able to complete his mission and capture the Shepardist leader. Accepting this fact, the salarian disappeared as his cloak activated, shimmering out of existence. The door then seemingly opened of its own accord, one final slug from the guard's shotgun serving as his parting gift to the intruder as he made a rapid escape.

Growling, the krogan moved to pursue, but turned back to the Samaritan out of concern, "Good Samaritan, are you-"

"I'm fine!" he snarled through clenched teeth, his head shaking as he desperately clinged onto his remaining sanity, overcome with unbearable pain, "Just...get the...intruder! Kill him...if you can! He...tried to silence...the Crusader's truth! Deliver...the justice...as he...would..."

With a solemn nod to affirm what he had heard, and to confirm his devotion, the krogan turned and made a hasty departure, moving out into the hallway in pursuit of his target, barking further orders into his comm. Whatever else he was saying was cut off abruptly as the door slammed shut, finally bathing his quarters in complete and total tranquility.

The first thought, other than that his floor was a mess and the spectre who had tried to arrest and abduct him was now on the run, was the splitting cephalalgy he was burdened with. He gripped his head, groaning futilely, and rolled over onto his chest. With that, he began to miserably crawl across the room, every inch of movement another hammer blow to his cranium. He persisted though, and after what felt like hours, he finally entered his bedroom, and swatted at his backpack, pulling it down. Ultimately, the miracle capsule that was supposed to stave off his descent into anguish, found its way into his mouth and he swallowed it down eagerly, doing so without water due to his pique, the lumb feeling like he had just swallowed an entire grape whole. While it didn't go away immediately, he could feel the dihydroergotamine leisurely taking effect, and the hot-blooded drumbeat in his head began to die down. He could now think relatively clearly again, at least.

Which left him in his current state. He clambered to his feet, leaning against the doorway as he comprehended the state of his quarters. He had to wonder just how long that spectre had been rummaging around his room, looking for evidence to warrant incarcerating him and stopping him from spreading the Crusader's truth. Why else would the Council be so quick to the scene? As soon as Linron was almost assassinated, the spectre had showed up...he had to have been deployed already. Which begged the question: how far was the Council willing to go? How many more spectres would they send?

It was a troublesome question. The answer to it was obvious, and he knew immediately that if that salarian had been poking through his things, he would know about everything. The transports, the Samaritan's thought process, the security disposition...all of it would come undone if that spectre got away and informed the Council. Then again, they'd just send more spectres, and keep doing so until the Samaritan finally gave himself up, and they'd shut down the entire Shepardist cult.

_I need guidance. I need the Crusader to guide us. What would you do?_

The answer seemed so axiomatic. The moment he asked the question mentally, he had been sure what needed to be done. In order to preserve what had founded, he would have to fight to keep it all standing. If the Crusader's creed was really as robust and trustworthy as he and his followers proclaimed, then they wouldn't roll over and die. Spectres or not, the Faith was not going anywhere. They would not be intimidated or oppressed.

This is not how it ended. Not this way. Not today. Let the Council send their spectres. Send as many as they want. The Samaritan and his people will be ready for them. Oh yes, they  _will_ be ready for them.

_This accelerates the timetable forward a bit, but no matter. I'll adapt, just as I've adapted to my new role as the Good Samaritan. The Council thinks they can bully us...they'll soon learn who they're dealing with. But of course...they need a demonstration._

Oddly enough, a smile peeled across his lips. An idea.  _Ah yes...a demonstration. They shall have it._

Like a robot, he moved over to his cabinet, crouched down until he was prone, and then reached under it, hand searching for an object. Once he had a hold of it, he pulled it out from under the large piece of furniture, grasping a long rifle, wrapped in a blanket. Standing up, he dumped it on the bench, and splayed it out, revealing the shiny, blue-grey plastisteel casing of his recent purchase, an M-29 Incisor sniper rifle. He hadn't used the weapon yet, and he had largely bought it for recreational use, although another part of him also believed his ulterior motive was self-defense. Beside it were six thermal clips, and like somebody on a mission, he grabbed it, wracked the slot on the rifle, and slid the clip right into place, bringing the slot back into position with a click, and a flick of his wrist. There was a loud beep as the weapon's onboard targetting computer registered as loaded. Satisfied, he laid the weapon back down, and brought up his omni-tool, contacting Jenna.

A few seconds passed before the connection was established, "Yes, what is it? We're kind of busy trying to find your runaway spectre." Her tone indicated displeasure, which he was all too familiar with. Despite not raising many complaints, he had no illusions as to Jenna and Conrad's opinions of him. He would always be the man who usurped their leadership in the end, and nothing would change that.

"About that..." he contemplated, one hand picking up his rifle and hefting it up as if it were as easy as picking up a toolbox. He turned to the doorway, noticing a trail of light, viridescent blood leading from a large puddle at the edge of his room to the door, identifying it as belonging to the injury he had inflicted on the spectre, "...have you been tracing a trail of his blood, by any chance? He's injured and hasn't had a chance to patch it with medi-gel."

"We have," Jenna admitted, and after a short pause, "Why?"

"Where does it lead?"

"The back exit. He's probably going through the garage," she replied.

"Excellent. Thank you for the help. And before you go, I want all security personnel to return to their stations immediately, except for those at the exit."

"What? But I thought you-"

"And while you're at it," he cut her off, newfound confidence filling his very being as his headache subsided, giving way to a glacial mindset as he studied the rifle he was holding, making his way towards the door with the bare amount of haste, "Find me the krogan guard who saved me from our spectre resident. I want his name."

"Yes, Samaritan, but what of-"

"Its being taken care of as we speak," he snapped, his tone getting icier and icier. He hooked a left, heading down the corridor, towards the observation windows at the end of the hallway. Despite his frosty demeanour, he held incredibly warm, a giddy feeling that just wouldn't go away, "Those are my orders. Carry them out, McLean."

Not even waiting for a response, he cut the link as he reached the end of the corridor. Reaching forward, he unsealed the window lock and pushed it up, a gush of hot wind and air blasting him in the face as he let it through the open crack. The feeling was like a slap of cold water on his face, and it helped to equalize the warmth building up inside him, which seemed to grow more and more intense with every passing second. Lowering his rifle, he propped it up on the window, barrel poking out through the crack, and he bent down into a crouch. Using his former knowledge in weapon handling, he pressed the stock up against his shoulder firmly, his cheek braced against the side of it. Once he was comfortable, his finger reached down and flicked the safety twitch, the weapon giving another beep out of warning. He ignored it, and modified the magnification level so he could see what was down in the street below.

Forty-seven floors down, he found the garage that Jenna had mentioned, located at the rear of the building. Licking his lips, another flurry of air chilling his skin and ruffling his hair, he felt his finger slightly caress the outer trigger. He took deep, slow breaths, restraining himself as he closed his left eye, right eye deferring to the scope at its field of vision. He quietly waited.

_The Council needs to know we mean business. That we're here to stay. Well..._

There. It was difficult to see, but if one paid enough attention, which he very much was, small details could be picked out from all the clutter: and there, in a constantly elongating trail, was the bread crumb trail. Dots of green blood, shining with the Tasale light as it reflected off of the liquid, leading from the garage over to the courtyard, and it kept going. There was no doubt about it: he had found their spectre. Tracing the dabs of essence back to their source, he could roughly determine the location of the salarian himself despite his tactical cloak, and from what he could see, he was limping...very badly. The Samaritan must have done more damage to the ligament than he thought.

He followed the salarian, unnoticed and all seeing. A mere dot to his natural vision, the salarian was under a lethal microscope and didn't even know it. As such, he held no reservations in ducking behind a nearby power generator. Believing himself safe for the moment, he ducked down and dropped his cloak. Checking both corners to make sure he wasn't followed, he reached down into a pocket on his armor once more and procured a packet of medi-gel. And just like that, completely unaware the eyes literally on the back of his head, he ripped open the bag and began to dab the marvel ointment onto his gaping wound.

He raised the sights, moving the reticle until it was directly over the salarian's skull. He keyed in his target coordinates, and watched silently as the computer calculated trajectory, wind speed, etc. If he did this, he would be a cold-blooded killer. But he didn't care. Regardless of how much he knew about his prior life before his memory blackout, he did know that he had been a marine, and served in a campaign or two, so he'd had his fair share of kills. This shouldn't be anymore than that: just another kill. A notch to the kill count.

He steeled himself as the calculations completed. He moved the reticle to suggested angle, and inhaled through his nostrils. He licked his lips one final time, and inhaled once again. As the spectre reached forward to dab some more ointment on his leg, the Samaritan's finger feathered the trigger...and then yanked it back.

The rifle coughed once, then twice, then three more times as he pulled the trigger in rapid succession, the stench of cordite a smell he didn't flinch away from, the breeze wafting it straight into his face. The kickback was tamer than he expected, but the result was not. Even from his distance, he was able to see the salarian's shields flare once, twice, then disappear on the third shot. The spectre's head jerked backwards as green splattered the pavement behind him, the rest of his ruined skull landing in the soupy substance. Brains and viscera coated the ground around him, the upper half of his head completely missing, the remainder being a twitching lower jaw, and a stringy mess of sinew and blasted nerves. Fractured cranial bone and what's left of his brain stained the concrete, and his body lay completely limp, a growing pool of blood forming around his corpse.

The gunshots echoed throughout Nos Astra, but was likely drowned out by the clutter of the skyline, left completely unheard...except for perhaps the residents of this building.

_There's your demonstration._

Lowering the sniper rifle and placing it against the wall, he brought his omni-tool up to his mouth once more, contacting Jenna, "Before you ask, those gunshots were me. Now, those men I told you to leave outside are going to find one dead looking salarian spectre outside. I want his body gathered and dropped in a dumpster somewhere."

"I... _what!?_ " Jenna gasped incredulously, sounding genuinely shocked and disgusted, "You  _killed_ him!? What the hell are we-!?"

"Relax," he responded. His own voice sounded far too calm, and that small part of him was worried he was already far too okay with such careless killing. He had taken up the prospect of killing the spectre far too easily, "I know what I'm doing. We're sending a message to those who would try to stop the Crusader. Now they know we mean business. Now...see that my orders are passed on, McLean. Then I want a meeting in the board room in two hours. I've got to...get cleaned up."

Wiping his face, he noticed dried blood around his cheeks from the cuts he received earlier. He stiffed, the heavy copper smell causing him to wince.  _I need a shower._ Picking up his rifle, he made his way back to his quarters, not a single regret left for what he had done. He'd committed the unthinkable: he'd gunned down a Council operative in cold-blood. There would be no forgiveness for this, he knew. The Council would find that salarian's body, connect the dots, and put a bounty on his head. A galactic manhunt would begin, most likely. Many Shepardists would likely see themselves persecuted. So be it.

The Crusader would protect them all, in the end.

The Good Samaritan was his messenger. His deliverer. And whether he knew it or not, a day of reckoning was coming. With the Reapers gone, the Council and the rest of the galaxy had returned to their old ways, proving they had learned absolutely nothing. And the Samaritan would be the one to repay their sins, to cleanse the galaxy of its criminality and filthy habits, and put the Crusader to power. The Council was corrupt. It was a weed that needed to be destroyed. And no matter how many spectres they sent...it would never be enough.

He smiled, opening the door to his quarters, and stepping inside.

The inferno couldn't be stopped now. The gate has been unlatched. And waiting for them on the other side was salvation. The Good Samaritan, the Faith, the Crusader...none of them could be stopped. None of them could be silenced.

And as he put his rifle away, declothed himself and turned on his shower, steaming hot water burning his naked skin and causing his cuts to sting, the shower itself a metaphor his mind had conjured up for the cleansing of his remaining doubts, the Good Samaritan solidified his conviction and galvanized himself for the long road ahead.

Whether they knew it or not, the war had begun.

* * *

 _Council Chambers, The Citadel - January 12, 2188 - Two days later_.

Two days after the investigation into the Shepardist cell on Omega, the  _Normandy_ finally arrived back at the Citadel, where it was well due for refuelling and restocking of supplies. Garrus had planned to pass his report on the investigation's findings over to OPSCOM, but had found that just a few hours out from the Citadel, Councilor Sparatus had contacted the ship over QEC, ordering him to return with due haste. When told that he was only a few hours out and had a report to file, Sparatus directed him to meet with the Council in the Council Chambers as soon as the  _Normandy_ docked. Garrus had agreed without question, especially given the turian's severe tone.

Even as Garrus ascended the steps to the pedestal, he knew something was wrong.  _Very_ wrong.

The entire Council was present: Osoba, Sparatus, Tevos and Valern, in that order. Valern had a very troubled and pensive look, Sparatus looked to be arguing with Osoba, and Tevos braced against the pedestal, looking completely exhausted. From first glance, one would think they'd be like this for hours. The confusion just continued to mount.

Garrus had heard of the incident on Sur'Kesh two days ago. He knew the Shepardists were behind it. And while this definitely confirmed Shepard's worst fears, and worried Garrus personally as it told him the Shepardists were growing more confident with their predomination, he knew the Council were working on it, and that Bau had been deployed on Illium for two weeks keeping an eye on the Good Samaritan. If they ordered his arrest, he very much doubted anything would go wrong. At least then Garrus could question this Samaritan personally, and find out why he's so obsessed with making a religion around Shepard.

Stopping infront of his pedestal, he nodded to the councilors, who now turned all their attention to him, with Sparatus and Osoba ceasing their argument and straightening their outfits.

"Councilors," he greeted, hands clasped behind him, "I have with me the report on the Shepardist cell on Omega. I had to make a few changes to it to take into account the attempt on Linron's life just two days ago, but you'll find it'll alleviate most of your worries. I'll submit the full report to the OPSCOM for archiving and for you to read at your discretion, but I'll provide a basic summary: Mankins' group has agreed to cease any and all action against Aria T'Loak and her people, and we shouldn't hear from the Omega cell again. Furthermore, their religionization appears to be an isolated event, tied to Omega's cultural tendencies more so than a global development in the entire organization. Suffice to say, I don't think we need to worry much."

Silence followed his statement, and his eyes made cursory observations of each of the councilor's faces. The color had completely drained from Osoba's face, Sparatus looked as impassive as always, Tevos looked back at him gravely, and Valern still looked to be deep in thought. All four of these expressions told Garrus that not a single one of them had paid attention to anything he had said, and that they had a far more significant reason for bringing him here. He was liking this less and less.

 _This reeks of_ _**bad** _ _._

"While ordinarily we would find little reason to question this..." Osoba began, involuntarily becoming the voice of his cohorts as the rest remained quiet, "Recent events have...rather shattered that illusion. I'm sure you're aware of the incident on Sur'Kesh?"

Garrus nodded, "I was made aware of it thanks to Spectre Churchill, yes. She was monitoring the extranet at the time and picked up on it before OPSCOM informed me. And before you ask, I'm also aware you've unofficially charged the Good Samaritan with taking responsibility for the attack and have deployed Spectre Bau to apprehend the suspect. I don't see why that would change anything, councilors. Even as we speak, Bau should be on his way here with the Samaritan."

A pair of looks were shared between the group, except Valern. Garrus picked up on that, and felt a twitch along his spine. He didn't like this one bit. Something had happened...something really bad. Hesitance and concern preceded them, the group radiating it like heavy swaths of radiation.

In the end, it was Tevos who dealt the knocking blow, "There's...been a complication in apprehending the Good Samaritan. Spectre Bau is dead."

His eyes widened, fixated firmly on Tevos, the deliverer of the bad news, "What? That...how can that be possible?"

"Believe me spectre, we were just as shocked by this news as you were," Sparatus added, shaking his head, "Spectre Bau is one of our most experienced agents. He served us with distinction and to hear of his death...its quite the tragedy. And also quite alarming."

"Who could've killed a spectre?" Garrus answered the unspoken question, Sparatus giving a quiet nod. Internally, his mind was a cyclone of thought.  _This...isn't right. These people are just fanboys and a few religious nuts. By the spirits, how did they manage to take down a spectre? None of this fits. Not a single thing we know about these Shepardists has been consistent. Just when we think we've come up with a predictive model, they beat it. If they have the ability to kill spectres..._

"Spectre Bau's body was found in a dumpster just four hours ago by the NAPD in Nos Astra," Tevos elaborated, shedding further light on the dire situation, "One of the Republics' intelligence operatives in the NAPD leaked to Asari High Command, who passed it on to us. They positively identified the deceased as Jondam Bau, and the report indicates that...Spectre Bau's head was blown off by a high-powered rifle. Single shot. They also found the round that killed him embedded in his skull, and their forensics ran it through their weapon database. The weapon used was a sniper rifle, possibly an M-29 Incisor."

 _A sniper rifle? I mean, I know the Shepardists have been recruiting ex-military members into their ranks, but if that's true...they really are forming an army. And a member of this army just killed a spectre. The implications of this...do they even_ _**know** _ _the implications?_

"What's worse..." Valern finally spoke, breaking away from his train of thought to unintentionally derail Garrus', "...is that we believe Bau's death was more than deliberate...it was done with the intention of being a warning. The NAPD report also made mention that forensics didn't find enough blood or brain spatter for the victim to have died at that very spot, which means their body was moved. And upon further inspection...the letter 'C' was found... _carved_ into his chest. With a knife."

_'C'? What could that mean? Perhaps it-_

_Crusader. It stands for 'Crusader'. Of course...but why? Why carve a letter into his chest?_

The shit pile just got higher and higher, and Garrus couldn't believe just how high it was beginning to stack.  _Spirits Shepard, its worse than we thought. These people have got to be taken down. This isn't a game anymore. This is no longer a cute 'let's worship the hero' type fangirling scenario. They've not only tried to kill two important figures, but they've murdered a government agent in cold blood, and carved a letter into his chest._

Then the next puzzle piece filtered into his mind, and the reason behind the attacks was made clear to him. Trying to kill Aria and Linron, killing a spectre, carving the name of their 'deity' into his chest, then leaving his corpse for somebody to find...for the  _Council_ to find...

_This...is nothing short of a declaration of war. The Shepardists...they're actually daring us to come after them._

_No, not the Shepardists...the Good Samaritan._

"This cannot be allowed to continue," Osoba declared firmly, "This has gone on long enough. This 'Good Samaritan' left that body there for one reason and  _one_ reason only! He's daring us to come after him! He wanted us to find that body, to link it to him...I don't know what his endgame is, but whatever it is, we can't let it continue! I think we've allowed this charade to go on long enough!"

"While I'm not usually inclined to agree..." Sparatus began, before sighing, nodding to both Tevos and Valern, "...I must. We look weak if we don't take action now, and weakness will only inspire others to take advantage. Our way of life still hasn't recovered from the Reapers...we have no possible way of waging a war with these Shepardists, or those like them."

Valern nodded, "Then we must strike fast, and pre-emptively. We sent only one spectre before to apprehend the Samaritan, and it was a mistake. We will not make the same mistake twice: this time, we will send a team of spectres, and they will not waste time trying to bring the Samaritan in. Kill orders should be distributed to all those deployed. This man is clearly insane  _and_ dangerous, which makes him a threat to our society. Today he's a holy man, tomorrow he could become a terrorist."

" _Tomorrow_?" Osoba asked incredulously, snorting, "I'd say he's a terrorist already! Murdering a spectre and throwing his body into a  _dumpster_! I agree...kill order must be enforced. This man is too dangerous to be left alive."

Garrus, who had been nodding along to their words the entire time, finally felt ready to speak. While they argued, he had given some thought to what they should do next, and how they should handle this crisis, and he knew the best course of action was to deal with it before it gets any worse. The Good Samaritan was a deranged lunatic, and as Osoba and Valern pointed out, his actions could potentially lead to terrorism. And with the organization he had at his disposal, he could launch attacks on an unprecedented scale. Every planet was in danger. No homeworld was safe.

Not even Shepard and Tali, living at their home on Rannoch, were safe.

Ultimately, the decision was final, and necessary.

"I'll do it."

All eyes in the room turned to Garrus, but nobody spoke. After a moment, Valern lowered his arms, eying Garrus directly, "You're volunteering for this task?"

"I'm not just volunteering," he confirmed, straightening up his posture, gaze grevious and posture battle ready, "I'm going to lead the raid. I've got a squad, and I've got the  _Normandy._  We're the best suited for the job. You've seen what the  _Normandy_ and her squad can do...and as the team that Shepard put together, its our obligation to put an end to this Samaritan and his rhetoric before it gets further out of control. Because of this, I'm also requesting that Spectre Williams and Churchill accompany me."

"Granted," Sparatus immediately replied, with the other three councilors nodding in affirmation, Tevos' being the least enthusiastic of the four, "You are hereby granted the authority to do whatever you see fit to handle this situation, including apprehending the Samaritan if possible, although we'd prefer if you eliminate him to neutralize the threat completely. You can also consider this assignment active immediately. Use whatever means you deem necessary to end this threat, spectre. Spirits be with you."

"Understood councilors." No further words warranted, he took that to mean that the meeting was adjourned, and pivoted on the spot and began to storm down the steps back into the Chambers' atrium. With his clarity set and a new purpose filling him with conviction and determination, he set about his new mission with a righteous rage.

This...Samaritan? He had killed one of his OPSCOM friends. He had made it personal. It was cold-blooded murder, and the carved knife wound into his stomach had only reinforced that fact.

No more games. No more beating the bush.

_This piece of shit killed Bau and thinks he can get away with it. Well, not anymore. He's gotten the Normandy crew's attention...but the attention I think he's craving. We're coming for him...and so help me, he better hope I'm in a better mood when I get there. Because I might just follow up on that kill order._

Garrus was angry. Angry for the first time in a while...he hadn't felt this enraged since the final battle in London during the Reaper War. Now he was summoning that anger, and letting it fuel him.

The Samaritan was going to pay.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**I'll keep this author's note short, since the chapter is already much longer than I wanted or anticipated.** _

_**Again, please review if you're reading this: every thought counts. As per usual, I'll be doing the next Flashpoint prompt before I tackle Chapter 7, but I hope you're enjoying the story so far. Chapter 6 is where shit hits the fan, and the ball really starts to get rolling. I know I said the first ten or so chapter of this story are going to be a slow burn, and they will, but that doesn't mean you won't get action sooner rather than later. And the Samaritan has a few more tricks up his sleeve yet.** _

_**As per usual, some music suggestions:** _

**Like a Temple: "Something To Fear" by Bear McCreary from the show** _**The Walking Dead** _ **.**

 **Working on the Skycar: "A Walk With Megan" by Michael McCann from the game** _**Deus Ex: Human Revolution** _ **.**

 **Bau attacks Samaritan/Samaritan kills Bau: "The Apartment" by John Powell from the film** _**The Bourne Identity.** _

**He'll Pay: "The Hand" by Bear McCreary from the show** _**The Walking Dead** _ **.**


	8. Exercising Due Diligence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Samaritan formulates an exit plan. Shepard's stress finally vents. Garrus leads a raid on the Shepardist HQ.

" _It is incredible what a pronounced hero can get away with and what can be accredited to him. There were no inconvenient questions asked of Robin because everyone preferred to believe that heroes defeat villains and that there were distinguishable traits that could easily tell the two apart._ " - Arianna Alexsandra Collins.

* * *

 _Shepardist Headquarters, Nos Astra, Illium - January 10, 2188 - Two days earlier_.

There was a globule of gum on the underside of the table.

Realistically, it should be the least of his concerns. One tiny, glob of viscous secretion that stuck to the very edge of the table, its presence irritating but hardly of immediate danger. In all honesty, anybody might have called him out for his injudicious focus if he had bothered to voice such thoughts, highlighting to him the seriousness of their situation in comparison to the insignificant inconvenience that was currently dripping down onto his leg.

Of course, the far more serious implication was just that. The gum was of more immediate importance to him than what had just come to pass. A microcosm of his mental state, represented by a chewy, pink substance designed to help with intestinal motility and saliva production. Out of all the things that could have stolen his concentration at this very moment...it had to be that.

The stark contrast should have made him laugh. It didn't. The reason was obvious.

It had been two hours. Just one hundred and twenty minutes since everything had gone down. Since everything had literally, proverbially and figuratively gone to shit. Since everything he had built had been threatened with destruction, only for him to flirt with Death's tool of destruction and end the life of his adversary. The implications reverbrated throughout the building, every member of the cult either shook or baffled by what had taken place. Nobody had expected it, least of all the Samaritan himself.

It still hadn't fully sunk in yet: he had killed someone. For the first time since he had woken up in that SAAF rehab facility on Earth and reassumed control and direction of his life, he had willingly taken a weapon and winked out another's life. To be sure, that person had tried to abduct him, and had almost killed him, but the consequence was still the same. The Samaritan should be feeling the three symptoms: shock, stress and then denial, not necessarily in that order. Instead...he felt nothing. Not a damn thing. And that scared him.

_Why...do I feel empty? I haven't shed a tear. I didn't so much as flinch away when I pulled that trigger. Practiced. Focused. Undeterred. Almost like I've killed before. Like I'm used to it. Was this part of my military career? The one I can't remember? How many have I killed? How many were justified...and how many weren't?_

Those kinds of questions brought up unpleasant feelings, and they were ones he wasn't quite sure he wanted answers to. He sighed, rubbing the five o'clock shadow of his face, eyes boring holes into the surface of the table he was seated behind. Fingers drummed on the edge, and he felt another drip from the gum hit his knee. Annoyed, he reached under, tore the gum from where it clung, and tossed it across the room, away from his presence.

Or, at least he thought he had.

Bringing his hand back, he found the gum still stuck to his hand, unwilling to leave its new habitat. Groaning, he flicked at it with his fingers, but it still didn't move. A low growl escaped his lips, and he flicked again. Still nothing. His growl grew with aching intensity, and he did it again. And again. And again. And again. And AGAIN!

He snarled like a rabid animal, the sound so inhuman that he might as well have passed for an extraterrestrial creature. His hand slammed down onto the table with enough force to shake it violently, the groan of the table's central support reaching his ears as it strained under the pressure. All this action achieved was to splatter the gum across his palm, and after taking a long breath, he fell back into his seat, breathing heavily, eyes wide.

 _Where did_ _**that** _ _come from? All over a piece of gum..._

Perhaps that was the intended irony of the situation. To demonstrate to him how ridiculous this all was, and how sickening psychotic. He had blood on his hands: he had taken a rifle and killed someone. Not just anyone, but a Council spectre...one of their top operatives. He had done it and he hadn't even blinked or shrinked away from it. He had justified it as necessary before he had even done it. He'd already drudged up an explanation for why, and a plan for what came next formed in his head as he retreated to his quarters, his migraine drifting away, whether from the euphoric pleasure of ending a life (a thought that terrified him), or from the pills he had taken, he couldn't be sure.

And despite all of that...he was more concerned with a piece of fucking gum.

_Was his life that worthless? A mere dot on my mental map? Snuffed out, as easily as one stomps a bug?_

It was becoming too much to bare. The person who had executed that spectre had seemed like an entirely different person. Almost as if, from the moment the salarian had announced his intention to arrest and bring him in, something had clicked in his brain and a new person had assumed control of him, waiting deep within the core of his mind to be unleashed. A mad creature capable of unscrupulous, incomprehensible violence. He was convinced this very man was the one who had occupied his past life, the one before all his memories had been repressed. Perhaps that's why he couldn't remember? The weight of all his decisions, all his psychotic actions...perhaps his amnesia was self-induced?

_No, that's ludicrous. Why would someone who enjoys violence want repentence? Why would they want to forget? No, this person is the kind who doesn't give a shit. He'd kill at a whim, and wouldn't even shed a tear. If that's the kind of man waiting underneath all of that...am I sure I want to find him again?_

It hardly mattered in the end. The Good Samaritan had to play the cards he was dealt, and whether he liked it or not, he had the memory of a goldfish at the moment. Little less than two months of memories he had accumulated, and that would have to be enough. And even if he hadn't wanted to kill that spectre, even if he had regretted pulling that trigger...the fact was that he  _had_ , and now he had to make a plan for what came  _after_.

Well... _they_  had to come up with a plan.

They were late, he noticed. All of them. Conrad, Jenna, the krogan guard who had saved his life, the other Shepardist group members...he was the only one who was punctual and on time. It probably had to do with the fact he had nothing better to do: every other minute of his life that wasn't spent sleeping or reading up on his life was spent helping the Shepardists build up their powerbase and influence across the galaxy. Despite the spectre's death having thrown a wrench into that schedule, that had always been the case, and still was. His first thought wasn't towards himself or his own wellbeing, but that of the group.

Like it or not, he had taken the first shot. Made the first kill of what promised to be a bloody war. The Faith would no doubt face reprisals for what they had done, and the Council would want somebody to answer for the death of their operative. Nobody killed a spectre and got away with it. And with the cult already being observed under a very narrow microscope, this only made matters worse. They would need to act fast if they wanted to save their organization.

_What else was I supposed to do? The Council knew where we were. That spectre would escape only to come back with reinforcements, or to try and abduct me at a later date. Hell, he might have written me off as a lost cause and simply gone with assassination! He was a threat, and I neutralized him while I still could!_

_The Crusader would approve, surely._

The Samaritan felt himself nod at that as he picked at the gum sticking to his hand, ripping it off piece by piece and casually flicking it away with a finger, much like a child pulled seeds out of a tomato.  _Yes, in the end, it all comes down to the Crusader. What he would expect. He may not know it, but he needs me. Needs us. The galaxy is in a dark place, and it needs people like us to bring back the light. Their governments would have them believe nothing has changed, but they're wrong!_ _ **Everything**_ _has changed! The Crusader was supposed to lead us into a new era, but these Council fools and the criminal syndicates of the Terminus would have us linger in the old. The time for change is near, I can feel it. The Crusader's must be made heard, and only then will real change come to pass._

_Then I can finally be redeemed._

He stopped, blinking as he frowned.  _There it is again. That word. 'Redemption.' What does that mean? What do I need redemption for? Is this about my previous life? Have I done something unforgivable? Something that only exaltation of the Crusader can wash away? Perhaps being the Crusader's disciple will clear the way to salvation. Perhaps that is my true purpose. My calling._

No answers were forthcoming. The Crusader was on Rannoch, and he was on the other side of the galaxy from him. The Good Samaritan's cause was his own for the moment, and it would have to remain that way until the Crusader answered his own calling. The Shepardists were the guiding light to all of the Milky Way, including the Crusader. It was the Samaritan's job to make him realize his mission was not yet complete, that the galaxy would forever have use of him: to rule the galaxy with an iron fist, and crush those who would lead the citizenry constantly towards decadence. Only once this personal mission was complete...could the Samaritan ever find rest.

He continued to pick at his hand, removing the last vestiges of the gum that had been besmeared across it, before wiping said hand on his pants. With a few extra slaps to ensure the disgusting substance was truly gone, he finally turned back to the table, hands clasped ontop of it and pulling the chair in. He sat there, cap seated firmly on his head, idly sipping at a water bottle as he waited patiently for his fellow Shepardists to arrive. The only occupants of the room so far, aside from him, were the four LOKI-class mechs that flanked each side of the room: two at the door, two at the windows. Their phlegmatic vigil was a welcome addition when compared to the often loud and talkative ERCS security they previously employed for protection. These new guards, mechanized and programmed as they were, did not require food, rest or leave. An occasional recharge was all they needed, spending the rest of the time entirely quiet unless addressed directly. The assortment of weapons they wielded combined to turn them into emotionless guardians, which were perfect, and just the reason the Samaritan had chosen them. The LOKIs made up the bulk of their security force, with the FENRIS mechs powered down and held in storage until needed and deployed.

He regarded one of the mechs with expressionless curiosity, his eyes regarding each and every inch of them, from their bright red optics, to the hydraulics in their legs that gave them mobility.  _Bereft of life and meaning. Unable to comprehend the sacred nature organics place on another being's existence. If given the order, they wouldn't hesitate to lift their weapons and obliterate a target. They have no feelings. No compassion. No conscience. The perfect killing machine. I wonder if that's how psychopaths and serial killers view themselves? Cold, heartless machines designed to kill and take life, rather than focus on their own._

_Is that what the Crusader will need to be? What I will need to be? When it comes down to it...could I just turn off my emotions on a whim? Oh how simpler my job would be if I could..._

But when it came down to it, he couldn't, hence his dilemma. No matter how he tried to justify it, he had murdered somebody, and would indeed be brought to answer for his crime. All he could do was hope his faith in the Crusader and his divine plan would persevere and help him complete the task he had been burdened with. That's all the direction he had left. It was his only remaining purpose in life. Well, what was left of his life that was worthy of the term.

_Whoever I am or once was is now irrelevant. Only the Crusader and his sanctimonious works remains. When I have brought him to greatness, I can do all the soul searching I want. But until then, until the...the...the Advocation...yes, until then, I am merely an oracle. A vessel. A vessel from which to deliver retribution upon the galaxy. The Good Samaritan._

Another new word. Another secret meaning. Another key to his intended work.  _The Advocation...what does that mean? Perhaps...perhaps it is what I must do? No, no...no...its what the_ _ **Crusader**_ _must do! Yes, that sounds about right...yes, the Advocation, whatever it is, is not intended for me, but for the Crusader. Whatever it is, it will be revealed in due time...for now, there is much work to be done. We must decide if we stand against the Council, or give into their oppression. I, for one, will not. The Crusader depends on me._

_The galaxy...depends upon the Crusader._

Another three minutes passed before the room finally registered its second entry. The door slid open as the familiar form of his krogan guard stepped through the door, hunched over and each step followed by a reverberating thud that only hinted at the weight of the creature. This was quite possibly the first the Samaritan was getting a proper, good look at him since the struggle in his quarters just two hours before.

Just like all krogan, he was a tall, sentient wall of muscle, bone and mean spirit. The hardened exterior bone that made up the crest across his scalp and temple was almost black, with centuries of warfare written across his face like the pages of a book, represented in scars. One wicked looking scar dragged down from the top of his crest, right down to his mouth, piercing his right eye which, now that he thought about it, was likely a cybernetic replacement. An assortment of smaller, but just as painful looking, scars littered different parts of his skin, including one right across his throat. Obviously, this krogan had lived a life of war and combat.

His age was probably in the late 1100s, as his skin shoved evidence of wear and tear, the leathery krogan hide looking discoloured and pale: the krogan equivalent of wrinkles and crinkled skin. Most of this was hidden under a thickset of body armor, which the krogan had recently put on in light of the recent attack: the armor was clearly his own property, as it had numerous clan markings he didn't recognize, and looked old and obsolete. Despite his age though, the krogan looked just as brutish and strong as ever, his gigantic size putting him several inches over the Samaritan in size, turning him into a veritable giant. The man's hands looked large enough to crush his throat, and his rows of canine teeth and gaping maw could probably tear his head off.

Despite this, and the Scimitar shotgun he had holstered on his back, the krogan remained respectful in the Samaritan's presence. Wordlessly, he nodded to the Samaritan and moved to approach him, stopping just a few meters from the table as he bowed his head, voice quiet and reserved, a surprise for a krogan, who were usually proud and noisy, "Good Samaritan...you wished to see me. I apologize for my tardiness, but I wanted to make absolutely sure your orders were carried out to the letter. The dead spectre has been taken care of."

The Samaritan nodded, aware of the orders he had given, including the additional ones he had provided later, "The Crusader forgives your lateness, as it was in the name of his work. What about the symbol?"

The krogan nodded again, voice just as low as he had started, "Carved the letter straight into his chest. They will likely notice it in the autopsy."

The Samaritan licked his lips, bobbing his head appreciatively, "You've done the Faith a great service," lowering his eyes for a moment, he raised them again, meeting the krogan's withered aquamarine gaze, "I...must also thank you for saving my life. It is thanks to your actions that I am sitting here, intact, and not currently being dragged off to a Council prison. The Crusader will appreciate your actions...I will see to it. When the Reclamation comes, the Crusader shall remember those who served him well."

The krogan took a knee, his adherence to the Shepardist rule of ettiquette unfaltering to the last, head held low and aimed towards the floor, "My people owe the Crusader everything they are today. Thanks to the Crusader, my people may once again have children without fear of death or tragedy. My people now have a future, and it is all thanks to him and his ilk. It is my duty to do whatever I can to repay this debt."

Impressed, the Samaritan stood up, "Stand up, servant, and tell me your name. I must have the name of the man who saved me."  _I owe this man a debt as well. Perhaps there may be someway for me to repay what he has done for me._

The krogan stood up, towering over the Samaritan so much he had to crane his neck to look up at him. He fixed the Samaritan with a calm expression, showing no hostility in his eyes or even the slightest bit of resentment, "My name is Grirbon Krend, former clan adjutant and armourer to Chieftain Grirbon Brek."

 _Armourer? So this man has a talent other than killing. To manufacture and build armor...this man must be very talented. Yes, he will make a fine addition to our ranks. I bet he crafted the very armor he is wearing right now too. Most impressive._ Crossing his arms, he nodded, "Well, Krend, you have made yourself known and I have heard. The Crusader may not be here to pass judgement, but in his absence, I believe you have sufficiently proven yourself. From this point forward, I want you as my personal bodyguard. We'll also find someway to put your craft to use."

The Samaritan hadn't really needed to think this decision through. Krend had saved him from certain prosecution and possible death, and he had skills that could be put to use that were just wasting away by having him limited to guard work. There was also the simple fact that krogan made excellent bodyguards, both for intimidation purposes and for actual protection and escort. And while it was not immediately clear to him why, something was telling him that Krend would come in useful later on, largely in regards to his armouring skills. Every single fibre of his being was shouting at him to make this happen, so he did. His instinct hadn't failed him so far, so he wasn't going to stop listening to it anytime soon.

Krend bowed his head once more, maintaining his silent acknowledgement of the position. He did not boast or try to sell his abilities, he simply accepted it. Something told the Samaritan he had made the right choice here, "I am honored and humbled by your choice, Samaritan, and I hope I live up to your expectations. I only wish to serve the Crusader."

"And you shall. By my side," he reaffirmed, reaching up and grasping the krogan's shoulder gently. His charismatic attitude must have rubbed off on Krend, as he shuffled in place, bobbing his head. Before the Samaritan could say much else, the door opened again, emptying even more people into the room.

"You're late," he dryly declared, watching Jenna, Conrad and numerous other Shepardists walk into the room, robotically moving to their assigned seats at the table and sitting themselves down. Hands clasped behind his back, he assumed his own seat at the head, sitting himself down just as Krend took the initiative, coming to stand at his left, towering over him like a goliath and letting his immense presence dare anyone to try and hurt the man he was assigned to protect. And to his credit, Krend didn't complain even once. More than the Samaritan could say about Conrad or Jenna. The entire group assumed their positions around the table, Jenna on the Samaritan's left, and Conrad on his right. Krend continued his custodial duty, and the rest of the Shepardist senior leadership remained quiet and awaiting the beginning of the meeting. There were two asari, one human male with a bit of a beer gut, two turians and a batarian. All of them said nothing, aware that the Samaritan commanded the room and was always the first to speak. So they waited.

The Samaritan had both predicted and been surprised by Conrad and Jenna's compliance. When he had expropriated their organization roughly a month ago, Jenna had fiercely opposed the action. The woman had more fight in her than he had expected from the girlfriend of Conrad Verner, a manifestly spineless and indecisive character whose only claim to fame was his afficionado attitude towards Shepard. Jenna was far stronger, her strong certitude complimented by a vociferous inclination. The disparity between the two was the contrast between a small spark and the fire. Conrad seemed like the kind of person who wanted to have what Jenna had behaviourally, but lacked any of the gumption to act on it.

Despite these inherent problems, the Samaritan had chosen to keep them at his side: in fact, he had made Jenna his second-in-command, with Conrad holding a more symbolic position of co-leader, simply to help pacify the elements (however small) that were still loyal to him and his more docile ideology. Jenna had proven herself more than capable of the position, with the Samaritan's new form of praxis and  _modus operandi_. She even seemed happier and more secure in her new position, her authority allowing her to act on the Samaritan's behalf, giving her greater control of operations within the organization and its people. She had made herself quite comfortable, and while she still didn't necessarily like him, her complaints were growing fewer, and her bitterness being set aside in service of their common goal. Where she stood with him was becoming harder and harder to discern.

Conrad was like reading an open book. He questioned every decision the Samaritan made with decreasing vigor and reliability. His arguments were weak and feeble, his strength wavered and oft times he had to just nod his head along to whatever he said or risk looking like a fool in front of the few committed supporters he had left. Conrad had his power taken away from him with barely any resistance to show for it, and he knew it. He had shown weakness and he was never going to recover from that, so the best he could do was be subservient and let the Samaritan do as he wanted. As a charismatic individual however, Conrad had his uses, and his speeches and ability to rule a crowd through pure passion made him perfect at recruitment. As such, the Samaritan had delegated that role to him. If anything, Conrad was a perfect bullshit artist, which made him an excellent choice for as 'sales rep'.

"Time is short, so I'll be brief," the Samaritan declared, all eyes turning towards him now that he had spoken, including Jenna and Conrad's, "I'm sure you're all aware of what happened just a couple of hours ago."

Jenna nodded, "Yes, and I'm sure the entirety of the Nos Astran Police Department is going to be aware shortly."

He shot her an impassive look, deciding to ignore the cutting statement. Turning away from her, he looked around the rectangular table, making them all aware he was addressing each and every single one of them, as a group, "I was attacked in my quarters by a Council spectre. He intended to abduct and arrest me, and take me to the Citadel, all because of the actions of Amarp and his trigger-happy group of idiots on Sur'Kesh."

"We enabled them!" Jenna slammed her fist down on the table, blowing a stray lock of brown hair out of her eyes as she practically foamed with irritation and disgust. The asari next to her flinched at the action, having not expected the loud and sudden action, "Amarp did what he did because we led him and his people to believe they were correct in thinking this was okay! We're creating an army of  _misfists_! Of would-be  _assassins_!"

"Watch your tone," Krend growled, staring down Jenna.

The Samaritan held up a single hand, signalling for Krend to back down. Satisfied he had, he crossed his legs, hands clasped on his lap as he turned to address her, "We have done no such thing. Had the Council waited for my statement, I would have disavowed any knowledge of Amarp's actions and excommunicated them. What they did was unacceptable, just as Mankins' actions on Omega were. As Conrad once stated," he motioned to the lone man, who perked his head up at being mentioned, "we are a group of peace, and the Crusader's exaltation is a process that must be done gently, not forcefully. Amarp and Mankins' failed to take note of that."

Jenna just scoffed, leaning back, looking at him incredulously, "Yeah, except you didn't. And now we've got a dead spectre, who  _you_ killed. On  _our_ property. The Council is going to want answers, and they'll be coming here first!"

Leaning forward, he locked eyes with every member of the table once more, breathing deeply and sharply, " _We_ killed him. We, as a group, are in this together. Yes, Amarp and Mankins' acted outside the wishes of this group, but what I did was in defense of it. Aria T'Loak and Dalatrass Linron weren't a threat to us...but that spectre was. He was going to take me away from our work, use me to destroy what we've built here. This  _glorious_ reawakening. I couldn't just let him do that."

Jenna still wasn't convinced, "He was running away-"

He slammed his hand down on the table, turning towards her and pointing a finger directly at her face, "He would have returned! And what then? He'd have informed his spectre friends of what we were doing, where we've been...the next thing you know, the STG and PSI will be raiding our bases on every homeworld, taking our people into custody, and shutting us away: unable to fulfill the Crusader's purpose! His truth would be silenced! Is that what you want? Is it? Look me in the eyes, and tell me that's what you want, McLean."

He looked at her intensely, his gaze unforgiving. Jenna's conviction slowly withered, and she finally looked at him shamefully, staring down at the table emptily. His gaze moved around the group, each of them unable to meet his eyes, finally stopping at Conrad, who was already turned from him, nodding mournfully.

He was right, and they all accepted it.

"Exactly," he affirmed, hand sliding off the table and slap back down onto the knee resting underneath, "We all knew what we were getting into when we started this. Truth is a revolution, and governments will try to destroy those revolutions wherever they come up. All revolutions required sacrifice and absolute commitment. We cannot falter, not at this most critical phase of our mission. We have come too far."

Still reticence filled the room, no one saying anything. Krend stirred a bit, old armor joints creaking in protest to his movement, but other than that, nothing. Finally, a cleared throat, and Conrad, of all people, spoke up, looking up to him, head supported by one hand, "Then...what do we do? We've...killed a spectre. Marked him with the symbol of the Crusader. The Council won't take long to figure out we're behind it. They'll send more spectres, perhaps even team up with the NAPD. For all we know, they could be storming this building tomorrow and arresting us all. We...we can't  _possibly_ be expected to fight the police, can we?"

He nodded gravely, pushing out his seat and standing up, hands clasped behind his back as he made his way to the observation window. The tinted glass kept out mose of Tasale's radiant glow, but some of it still managed to make it through, illuminating his face in a golden haze, every feature of his expression highlighted for the room to see, "You're right. They will come, and they will not be kind. We've fired the first shot, eliminated one of their elite secret agents. They will not let this slide. There will be reprisals, I have no delusions of that. There can be no doubt: as of today, we are at war. That spectre is only the first casualty."

"How can you stand there and say that?" Jenna blurted out incredulously, "To so casually announce that we've started a war with an intergovernmental alliance! This isn't some rival group or company we're protesting...these are entire governments! I can't believe we're even calling this a  _war_. A war suggests we have an equal chance of winning...we have  _no_ chance!"

He whirled to face her, the sun's light granting him an ethereal luminescence that made him seem almost celestial, " _That_ is a defeatist attitude the Crusader will  _not_  tolerate. He may not be here with us, but once he realizes what the Council is doing...he will not stand idly by. He is a man of action. Can you name one time he has not stepped up to help those in need? The man has defeated a  _Reaper_ on foot! The Council is  _nothing_ compared to him! Once the galaxy realizes he stands with us, they will flock to our banner. And  _then_  we will see who has the least chance of winning, and it won't be us."

Nothing was said for a while, the Samaritan allowing his words to stew in their minds before he continued, turning back to the window, "The fact of the matter...is that we're on borrowed time. It hasn't been a day yet, but come tomorrow, that body will be found, and we will need to act quickly."

"Even if we could do something..." Conrad's doubtful and disinclined voice piped up, shifting in his seat to face the Samaritan, "...the Council won't stop. Every single one of our congregations will be hit. Sur'Kesh, Earth, Palaven, Thessia...even Rannoch and Tuchanka. None of them are safe. What can we do to protect them? Security mechs won't cut it. And I would say opening fire on Council intelligence and military operative is a sure way to get destroyed very quickly. We need the Crusader here...leading us. Right now. Why has he not come?"

 _A good question. One I cannot answer. Not yet._  Why the Crusader refused to leave his abode on the quarian homeworld, despite everything that was happening to his followers, was astounding to him. The Samaritan had done everything he had to get Shepard's attention and finally pull him from his world, but he hadn't left. Was he losing faith in the galaxy? Was he so fed up with the state of everything that he had retreated to the edge of the galaxy in an attempt to escape it all? Had the Crusader given up?

_All the more reason to keep going. To rise up. To show him we can fulfill his promise and return him to prominence. Then...then I'm sure he'll listen. He'll come to us. And then he shall be exalted, as he rightfully deserves._

Convinced he was right, the Samaritan shook his head and turned back to the table, all eyes firmly resting on him and looking to him for guidance. He was their leader, and it was his job to instill hope in them. So he would, "The Crusader isn't here, this is true. He resides on Rannoch, awaiting the time to rise up. He has not forsaken us...he is consolidating his strength and waiting for us to take the initiative," he walked around the room, circling the table like a vulture a dying animal, "It is our job as disciples to continue the fight, and ready the galaxy for his return. The Reapers were only the beginning...the true rotten root of evil rests within the Council. Why do you think he left for Rannoch, to reside with the quarians? Because only  _they_ understood his intent. Peace. The Council and the rest of the galaxy would like to return to the status quo, but the quarians? They've set aside old differences, made peace with the geth and given birth to a new world! Even now, we have quarians and geth in our very own ranks! The Crusader's message has been forgotten and swept aside...we must make it known. And to do that, we cannot roll over. We cannot give in. We cannot, and will not, be bullied into submission!"

"I'm with you, Good Samaritan," the batarian at the end solemnly declared, "But the question is...how? The Council sent a spectre here to capture you, which means they now know we're here. If the Illium police don't storm this place first, then we can expect a squad of spectres to do so. We have nowhere to run...nowhere to hide!"

The Samaritan nodded, finally reaching his end of the table again, but not sitting. His mind was a mess of thoughts, trying to think of a solution to the batarian's conundrum. All eyes were on him, even Krend's, as they awaited his decision. He had gotten them to accept their situation, but he needed to convince them they could move forward. And just then, when he thought he could come up with no definitive answer, one popped up in his mind. Just like all the times before, it was just there, almost like the thought had been inserted into his brain from an outside source.

He remembered the search he had done on Shepard's achievements during the period between 2183-2185, and the numerous planets and stations he had visited in his travels. He'd remembered every single one off by heart, without so much as a lapse in memory. Every world's name, every single facet of detail. So as he evocated through these memories, one particular place came to mind. A place that had just what they needed: a safe haven. A place to run to. To hide.

To congregate, stage and wage their operations in peace. Unnoticeable. Out of the way. A place nobody, especially not the Council, would suspect.

With a partial grin, he opened his omni-tool, typing in a few select commands before searching through the extranet in a hurried fashion. Once he had found the codex entry he was looking for, he used a flick of his wrist to bring up the location in question, information contained in a small holographic box next to the representation of the location itself. He splayed his hand open to expand the image, making it nearly as big as he was. He then transferred the image to the table's holo emitter, and all members of the room scrutinized the image before them in varying displays of confusion, awe and realization.

And the Samaritan, leaning over he desk, simply nodded at it, "That, my batarian friend, is a place to run to, and a place to hide. I suggest we analyze this planet thoroughly. Because I think we've just found our new headquarters."

The Good Samaritan's smile widened.

* * *

_Royal London Hospital, England, Earth - April 21, 2187 - Six months since Shepard's retrieval._

_He was close. So close to being done. To leaving. Soon, in just over a month, he could finally leave the hospital behind him and move on with his new life. To experience the new world. To see the future he had helped to forge, that many had died to ensure would be created. And, most of all, he would finally be able to show Tali how much he loved her._

_He had been cooped up in this hospital for six months now, and he had felt every single day of it. Some days would be spent in bed, eating and drinking and, if Tali or one of his friends were there, talking to someone. Other days, which were most of them, he would be in physical therapy. Of course, the actual physical therapy had ended a week and a half ago, and now he exercised because he felt like it. Because it pleased him to be in control of his body._

_He had accepted the hard reality that he would never be himself ever again. His right leg was so badly damaged that the limp he suffered from, along with the occasional flare up of pain, was going to be a constant reminder of the sacrifices he made to be here. But so long as he had Tali, he could cope. He would survive and move on. The Marine Corps had been his life for as long as he could remember, but Tali was his true love now. He couldn't imagine a world without her, and her spirit and determination had carried him through the worst the war had to offer. He wasn't sure when he had decided to throw down his career for her, but if there had to be a flashpoint, it was probably when the both of them were on Rannoch, admiring the view as they contemplated the future they had together._

_And now he was so close that, if it were a tangible object, he could touch it. He had survived the worst: the surgery and medical implants, the intense and excruciating physical therapy and now all he had to do was wait. Tali had been with him every step of the way, never shying away from helping him, never showing any disappointment or impatience with how he paced himself. He could see the eager look in her eyes, the hidden want that called for her to return to the homeworld, but that yearning was hidden deep. Restrained. She was holding the door open for him, waiting patiently for him to walk through with her._

_He was excited...for the first time in so long, he was feverishly awaiting Doctor Stoneman go-ahead to leave. Six months of convalescing and sitting in a bed, and freedom was within sight. It seemed almost unimaginable: he had sat in this bed for so long that the war had felt like a decade ago, a distant conflict that children would be reading history books about. The idea of him being a page in a history book made him feel old already, but he couldn't but wonder if perhaps in the next fifty years he might be writing his own memoirs. Whatever the case, the war was but a mere figment of memory to him at this point, a splinter of history he was eager to forget and, failing that, get as far away from as possible. And in a month, he would achieve the power to do just that._

_He was so high on this euphoric feeling of forthcoming freedom...that he hadn't even hesitated when he had unwittingly permitted Tali to allow visitors other than his crew._

_It was a mistake._

_He couldn't remember what compelled him, what impulse he had acted on, to allow this. In his clear, concise frame of mind, he never would have approved it. Even Tali had been shocked when he had given the word, as if someone had possessed her friend and used his mouth as a conduit for words that didn't belong to him. In truth, Shepard wasn't sure who had spoken when his lips parted. Was he truly compos mentis? Who knows. Whatever the case, whether it be the ramblings of a near broken veteran or the jubilant blitz he was encumbered by, Tali had breached the dam on his command, and he had to deal with the flood._

_That had been a long day. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting in the end, but in any case, he was left humbled, troubled and guilt-ridden. His mood had been soaring through the clouds at the start, and within just over an hour, an uncomfortable set of ruminations was dumped on his lap, unwilling to be ignored or shoved aside._

_Tali had limited the number of visitors on her own volition, not wanting him to be overwhelmed. The first visitor had been a resistance fighter, a member of Furious Terra's London division during the war. Looking into his eyes, the stink of death and horror was permanently etched into the man's expression: a solemn testament to the atrocities the Reapers had committed. His face was a novel, telling the tale of a man who had watched friends and civilians die while he sheltered, running from trench to trench, just trying to stay alive. A man who's hopes and dreams had been grounded into dust, only for his life to be spared in the end through a perceivable act of God. His reaction to meeting the Savior of the Galaxy was tame and reserved compared to most, and he had talked about the battles he fought with the sage experience of a battle-hardened commando. When he left, he had shaken Shepard's hand firmly, and done so with Tali as well, before saluting both of them. He had left the room as he entered: with a weighted gait, and head held low in eternal mourning._

_Many visitors had passed after him, each getting progressively more intense in their admiration and praise. Then he met a mother and her daughter._

_The grief stricken mother, covered in soot and dust, her torn clothing and bloodied palms making Shepard wince at the sight, had walked through the doorway hesitantly, as if afraid to approach him. In her other hand, she held the tiny appendage of her diminutive four-year-old daughter. The mother explained how the Alliance was still finding survivors, even six months after the war had ended, despite most of the rubble being cleared, and that she had only been found yesterday, reunited with her daughter, who was found a few days before. As the mother described her experiences, her daughter had peered up at Tali with the curious focal point of a child eager to consume knowledge. Apparently, to a tiny human who had never left the confines of her home planet, the sight of this purple suited alien who's face she couldn't see was something of a wonder. During the entire conversation, her eyes never left Tali, who, Shepard could tell, was smiling behind her mask, waving her hand at the little kid._

_Eventually, the mother lifted up her daughter and presented her to him like some kind of offering, the mother's trembling smile accompanying her choice of words, ones that shook Shepard to the core, "There's...the man your...daddy...fought with, Little Juny. That's Commander Shepard."_

_A pang of guilt. This girl's father had fought during the Battle of London. He had died. Torn apart by Reaper hordes or harvested, who knows. But just hearing about this man's fate, knowing that it was a result of Shepard not being good enough, hit home hard. He knew it was irrational. He knew it was unreasonable. But every loss felt like a strike against his name, one more failure he had to atone for. And now...it wasn't just a statistic. The cold, hard, physical reality was presented to him._

_It got worse and worse...the praise. His mood deteriorated with every visitor who continued to shower him with awe and laudation. He wasn't a human being to them...he was an icon. A man who's legendary status pitted him above the realms of men. It simply couldn't compute to these people that he was flesh and blood, capable of emotion and pain, sorrow and happiness. To them, he was more than that. He was the modern-day Achilles, the Heracles, the King Leonidas of Sparta. He couldn't die, he conquered all, and he was incorruptible._

_Many visitors had been calm and respectful, like the initial resistance fighter. But others were like the mother and her daughter, telling him how much he had affected their lives for the better. One, a couple, even suggested they were going to name their first son after him, like many had done before them. The idea of more children running around the galaxy with his name caused him to gulp unwillingly. But it got worse: people intending to join the military and become an N7 just to be like him, people wanting to change their legal name to 'John' and 'Shepard'...one ludicrous group of people, a gang of friends, even intended to get a tattoo of his name on their backs for their birthdays, followed by 'honored to be human!'_

_The insanity never ended. The praise never stopped. On and on it went. By the end, Tali had seen the signs, and without a word from him, the visitors stopped coming. Tali was no longer letting them in._

_And just like that...that one month couldn't come fast enough._

_"Doctor Stoneman," he had begun, gulping down a glass of water as his throat became dry. He had called in the doctor after the last group of visitors had left, Tali a constant presence by his side, the book she had been reading on her datapad lying on her lap, ignored as she focused on other priorities. The doctor was positioned on the other end of the bed, looking upon him with satisfaction. Likely, Stoneman was glad Shepard was recovering well._

_"You wished to see me?" Stoneman asked, one hand in one pocket while another held a datapad by his side._

_"You're..." he croaked, raising a fist to hammer his chest: an instinctive reaction to his voice breaking, trying to clear his throat of the obstruction so he could speak normally, "...sure I'll be able to leave in...a month?"_

_"All the figures show you're well on your-"_

_"Are they certain?"_

_Tali looked at him quizically, her blank stare through the mask seeming to analyze his facial features to find a reason for this line of questioning. Stoneman was just as baffled, but took a moment to think through what he would say next, offering a shrug, followed by an assured nod, "Yes. By all accounts, the projections are ninety-seven percent certain you'll be able to leave this hospital in the next three weeks."_

_"Will I be good for travel?"_

_Tali's stare didn't waver, but he wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Stoneman._

_He frowned, "Depends where you intend on going."_

_"Rannoch."_

_An epiphany detonated a bomb in Tali's head, and the quarian straightened instantly, the bombshell immediately unravelling her confusion and doing away with it. She turned to Stoneman now, just as eager to know the answer._

_He sighed, rubbing the stubble on his cheek, "I don't see why not. Your physical therapy has gone exceptionally well, far better than initial projections believed. I'll consult with Doctor McLeod and Chakwas, but as far as he and she are concerned, you're ready to go. The extra month is just so we can observe any potential swoops and peaks in your condition. So...I don't see why you can't go to Rannoch, just as long as you keep it easy. Your condition is delicate, and we must make sure you're okay. I don't want to be known as the doctor that neglected Commander Shepard's health."_

_"Much...obliged," he commented. His statement was effectively a dismissal of Stoneman, but he offered an addendum regardless, pulling up a smile, "Thank you, doctor."_

_Once the doctor had taken his leave, Tali had turned to him, hand reaching out to grasp his own gently, "What was that about?"_

_He turned to her, and the look in his eyes must have spoken volumes. Her gaze had softened, an air of understanding shrouding her, posture slackening as she realized what he meant. His words weren't needed, but they were the final nail in the coffin._

_"I don't want to be here any longer than necessary," he explained, turning away from her to look blankly up at the ceiling. He needed to escape. The praise, the adoration, the ceaseless pandering to his 'heroic' deeds. It needed to stop. He needed to run. As far from all of it as possible. Yes, he might be a coward. But he had fought for his right to live a peaceful life, and he would be damned if he allowed teenage tattoos of his name and statues built in his honor to hamper that dream._

_"Soon as I'm ready, we're going. To Rannoch. To our new home."_

_Just one month. Just one more month._

* * *

_Shepard Residence, Rannoch - January 12, 2188 - Present day_.

He breathed in shuddering, heavy breaths. Sweat trickled down his skin in icy sheets, soaking the shirt he was wearing and leaving him with the feeling of having had a shower. Hair stuck to the side of his head like glue, and his muscles tensed and burned with an intense ache. Despite this, and the break and his brief flashback into the past, he never stopped, and his legs continued their motionless trek, the belt below him spinning constantly to create the illusion of movement.

With nothing else to do, and Tali currently out with Shala'Raan to have lunch and discuss the wedding, Shepard had elected to start a new exercise regimen. They hadn't really decided what they wanted to do with the basement yet, so they had both elected to turn it into a gym for their own personal use. Most of the equipment Tali couldn't use, as it was designed for a human, and her body structure wasn't compatible. She had made use of the few she could however, and he had lost count of the times he had snuck inside and hidden behind the stairs just to 'admire' her curvaceous form as she lifted weights, ran on the treadmill and pedalled her feet on the exercise bike. She probably she knew he was watching though, as she never locked the door, even when he was in the house.

Today though, he had it all to himself, and after working on his exercise schedule, he was now putting it into action. He had spent nearly six hours weight lifting, both with the dumbbells and the pole, modifying the amount of weight for maximum strain (although his cybernetics, however battered, gave him an unfair advantage). Not a single piece of equipment was left untouched, and with all that done, he was now running on the treadmill. An hour and a half later, here he was, still going at it.

He had exceeded his expectations in terms of performance. He had done his best to avoid placing too much strain on his legs, especially his damaged one. So by the time he got on the treadmill, his legs were practically fresh and ready to go. However, he was beginning to feel the pain racing up his shanks, his teeth griting uncomfortably against each other as he tried to bite his way through it. His cheeks were furnaces, and it felt like liquid magma was washing up his leg muscles. It was a familiar feeling, one he dreaded, but mostly just hated. A mnemonic description of what was about to occur if he didn't stop. He remembered all too well what would happen. He'd already experienced it once...he wouldn't go through that again. Not if he could help it.

He suddenly gripped the handrail tightly, his other hand rising to practically bash the button to switch the machine off. He gradually descended into a slow walk, getting slower and slower as he matched speed with the decelerating belt. As he stood there, chest rising up and down tersely, grabbing a towel to dab at his face, drying up the leftover sweat. He hadn't realized until after his jaw and throat began to hurt, that he had been yelling, practically roaring, the entire time as he slowed down. With the burn in his leg beginning to dissipate, he bashed the machine repeatedly in frustration, losing control of his inhibitions. With nobody watching him, he rested his head on the controls, growling under his breath.

_Stupid. Fucking. Leg._

Traces of the smouldering pain that had been tightening around his right leg were still there, and he felt himself shakingly licking his lips, conserving his breath in an instinctive attempt to propitiate the appendage. Many days had come to pass where merely walking around too much would spike his leg's discomfort. He'd be lying if he said he was fine with it. He put up a front so Tali wouldn't worry, but he knew for a fact she wasn't falling for it. She was too smart for that. She knew him too well. But he tried his best to hide it nonetheless: if not for her, then for himself. For his own pride.

It was stupid, he knew. But he was a proud man. And the idea of all the shit he went through, all the shit he survived, every single injury he endured and walked off, only for a fucking limp to put him down, seemed an ignominious end. Maybe it was ego that kept him from giving in. Perhaps he was arrogant to think he could walk off literally any injury and come off untouched.

Perhaps the most laughable irony of all was that, for all his talk about hating the praise and deification that people threw his way, a small part of him still believed in the invincibility, in the incorruptibility...in his ability to do anything and take down anyone. He was finally being knocked down a few pegs, offered a humble ultimatum by fate itself, and he refused to take it. He spat in fate's face, told them to take their deal and shove it, and continued to push on like nothing was wrong.

He was a fool. But you know what? He didn't give a fuck.

Once the burn in his leg had finally receded, which took minutes longer than normal due to his calisthentics, he walked off the treadmill, continuing to wipe away traces of sweat left on his skin. With his exercise done for the day, he decided to head back upstairs and grab a cold drink of water. He'd earned that much, at least.

Wrapping the towel around his neck and letting it hang there, he reached the top and headed straight for the kitchen, grabbing a stray glass and filling it to the top with water. He skulled it in moments, before pouring another and taking his time with a single sip. Already feeling refreshed, but still slightly warm, he made his way towards the lounge room, plopping himself down in the couch with a blissful sigh of comfort. His aching bones welcomed the fluffy embrace of the sofa, and he allowed himself to practically sink into it as he opened up his omni-tool, turning on the vidscreen. With Tali out, he had nothing else better to do, so he might as well check the news while he waited for his energy to come back.

He flicked through a few of the channels, finding that nothing interesting was on aside from a show called 'Top Gear' about skycars, more coverage of the Reaper War cleanup and a few comedy and reality shows. Finally, he landed on the GNC (Galactic News Corporation) channel, where the headline immediately caught his attention, causing him to lower his hand from his omni-tool, hesitating from switching the channel again.

_Breaking news: Citadel Security raids Shepardist cult._

Intrigued, he hurriedly turned up the volume on the vidscreen, on-site footage from GNC reporters quickly appearing on screen. The scene quickly cut away from an interview with a responding turian C-Sec officer in tactical gear to the location of the raid itself. Shepard felt himself go dead silent as the images flashed across the screen: pictures of himself on the walls, and even a statue of himself placed in the middle of what looked to be a living room. He felt his vision begin to blur, focus becoming disjointed as he failed to register the sound of Urz entering the room, barking at him as he came to sit beside the lone human.

_"...numerous arrests were made as officers of Bachjret precinct's elite SRT unit stormed the Shepardist cult compound in the lower ward. Reports state nobody was killed, with only one wounded. The rest have surrendered themselves into custody peacefully. The raid comes after C-Sec intelligence discovered that a Shepardist attack from this very facility on a Council member was imminent. The Shepardists, now calling themselves the 'Faith of the Crusader', have enjoyed a large increase in their recruitment numbers over the last few weeks. However, this renewed activity has also brought forth fears of mob violence, and some of these fears are justified. Just two days ago, an attempt on dalatrass Linron's life by Shepardists on Sur'Kesh was thwarted by her bodyguards, but she remains in a critical condition. The Council has condemned the action, but the man calling himself the 'Good Samaritan', leader of the Faith, has refused to comment. This raid, as you see before you, is but one of many government raids being conducted across Council space, as we speak. Yesterday, on Sur'Kesh, the STG conducted a similar raid and arrested Amarp Tijie, the architect of the Linron assassination attempt. Amarp is due to appear in a salarian court next Tuesday and, if found guilty, will face capital punishment, along with his co-conspirators. While details are sketchy, nobody knows if the Samaritan and his branch on Illium are safe from Council reprisal, but is very likely that the Faith will not go down without a fight..."_

The images continued flashing past: more statues, more pictures, more vidscreen footage of Shepard's deeds in battle. Another shot of numerous arrested Shepardists, of varying species ranging from asari to batarian, krogan to salarian, all of them lined up along the floor, omni-cuffs binding their wrists, with two C-Sec guards armed with rifles keeping a watchful eye on them. Inside, a C-Sec trooper guides a journalist and her cameraman through a corridor and numerous rooms, displaying numerous items ranging from figurines to datapads containing information on Shepard's dossier and service record. The more he learnt, the more dread he felt.

Finally, the scene cut to the leader of the Citadel compound, an asari by the name of Mor'lies Heius, who had her wrists bound behind her back and arm held secure by a human C-Sec officer while the journalist asked her questions,  _"...doing this? What do the Shepardists hope to gain from this? Surely you and your people must know that Commander Shepard won't condone this sort of behaviour. What do you have to say for yourself and your organization?"_

The asari's face held no repentant expression whatsoever. In fact, she looked more confused than anything else, like she had been caught doing something menial and lawful and was arrested for no reason. She learned forward, her deep blue skin identifying her as in her maiden stage,  _"The Good Samaritan doesn't believe we have to explain ourselves to non-believers, but since you asked, I might as well. The Crusader has done right by us! He lifted us from the cradle of death and placed us on the path to redemption. This galaxy has become corrupt, servile and dispondent. The Samaritan only wants to help you all see the path to true salvation that the Crusader has laid out for us! The Faith believes the Crusader will one day see that the fight is not over, and will return, renewed and stronger, to bring down the Council and those who have engaged in filthy misconduct! He will bring down a rain of wrath, and when the dust has cleared from this great conflict, the galaxy will rise once again, underneath his banner! He will lead us to a new dawn! And if he must do that as a dictator, then so be it! The Crusader will return someday, and we will be ready! As his army! As his disciples! You better believe it! The time of reckoning...is near! The Council can try to silence us all they want! They won't get far! We've done nothing wrong!"_

The journalist, visibly baffled by the asari's rhetoric, continued her line of questioning as interviewee's rant ended,  _"Surely you realize attacking a government official is illegal? Under the Conventions, that is an act of terrorism by your organization. The Samaritan has done nothing to combat these allegations. C-Sec received information that you were planning an attack on Councilor Tevos later this afternoon. Is this true?"_

The asari just shook her head,  _"You journalists are all the same! We've seen how Khalisah Bint-Sinan Al-Jilani treated the Crusader! She laughed at him, just like you're doing now! But we see the truth! The Council can't hide it from us any longer! And if it is terrorism...so what? How does the human saying go...one man's terrorist, is another's freedom fighter...ah yes. We are only fighting for our freedom! People like Linron are evil and should be destroyed! Her actions nearly cost us the war! Kept the salarians from entering at a pivotal moment! Amarp was right to try and kill her! And yes, we_ _ **were**_ _going to kill Tevos! We would have killed the entire Council! They are, all of them, traitors and seditionists! They mocked and deceived the Crusader! Well, when he returns, they will be the first to pay...in blood!"_

The journalist must have motioned to the guard that she was finished, as he now roughly yanked the asari back, pulling her away as he returned her to her group. The camera returned to the face of the reporter, who was now facing it, the troubled expression mirroring his own. Blood thundered in his ears, her words drowned out as he steadily rose his omni-tool, and jabbed at it to shut down the vidscreen. He sat there in silence, his nictations and breathing the only movement he made.

He felt himself stand up, but it never fully registered in his mind. He was running on programming, his body walking around the couch towards the kitchen, but his brain feeling as if it had never sat up. The persistent thump of his heart beat could be felt resonating inside his ears and throat, tightening up as it became difficult to breathe. Urz followed behind him, showing no concern as the large varren continued to bark at him, either wanting his attention or food, or both. He paid him no mind however, too deep in thought to even acknowledge anything else in his immediate proximity.

_They've gone too far...this insanity...its going too far! They're calling me a dictator? Reading my words into a false message so they can orchestrate terrorist attacks in my name? Have they lost all sense of reality? What the fuck gives them the right to attack people like Linron and pin that responsibility on me?_

First Aria T'Loak, now a salarian dalatrass. To be sure, he despised Linron. The conniving bitch had sought to undermine the peace process he had been working on between the krogan and the turians during the war as a way to secure continued 'interstellar security' for salarian borders. The same woman who had offered him the might of the Sur'Kesh Union military if he would 'simply' sabotage the genophage cure, betray Wrex, doom the krogan to extinction and shoot Mordin in the back. Of course, in his mind, these terms were unacceptable. He had spat in Linron's face, told Wrex and Mordin at the nearest opportunity of her perfidious scheming and helped cured the genophage. He had smiled at reading her angry letter to him, the salarian politician convinced she had successfully manipulated Shepard into a catch 22 deal he couldn't escape from. It came as no surprise that, after the war, Linron had strongly opposed Shepardism on Sur'Kesh, even banning its presence on her homeworld of Mannovai, and had gone out of her way to smear his name and reputation whenever she got the chance. He shed no tears over her getting shot, but to have it pinned on him...

_I hate Linron. But I would never try and kill her...she's not Balak. She's not some jingoist slaver piece of shit terrorist who takes sadistic pleasure in murdering innocents in the name of batarian nationalism. Sure, she tried to pull a fast one on me, but did she try and throw an asteroid into a planet with millions of people? Did orchestrate the greatest slaver attack in history on Elysium? No. Balak I'd kill in an instant if I got my hands on him, the slimy bastard. Linron...she's just another in a long list of politicians I despise. I didn't want to kill Udina, and I don't want to kill her._

Having the Shepardists make it seem as if he'd support such an action just slammed another nail into the coffin.

Reaching the kitchen, the heart beat in his ears got so intense that he tripped and fell against the archway, resting himself against it as he moved to get back up. In an instant, Urz was back at his side, sitting on his posterior and barking up at him incessantly. Every bark was another interruption to his thoughts, and, for whatever reason...made him angry.

_They'll never stop. They won't give up. Again and again, they'll murder in my name. I can't-_

Another bark. Tendrils of red anger fed into his vision.

_This can't go on. You know it can't. Garrus needs to end this people. What they represent. The Council needs to put a stop to-_

Another bark. He groaned, his lungs feeling as if they were seizing up, his reaction like that of a claustrophobic caught in a tight crawl space. He gasped, the sound almost animalistic and tinged with building fury.

_You'll never get your peace while they're running around. Next, they'll start harassing Tali too. And the Normandy crew. It will never stop. The praise will continue forever. Praise the Shepard. PRAISE THE CRUSADER!_

Another bark. He bit down on his tongue by accident, wincing as his teeth pierced the tiny, malleable flesh, drawing blood. The copper tang of his own life source tainted his gums. He growled.

_Commander Shepard would have put a stop to this. He'd be out there, fighting them, putting them down. I should be-_

Another bark. And he finally snapped.

His head twisted to face Urz, eyes filled with pure murder as he spun faster than a  _Sovereign_ -class Reaper on maneveur. The gritting of his teeth almost sounded like the clang of a bullet on metal, and spittle erupted from his mouth as all the pent up emotion that he had been bottling up for months on end finally exploded in the confines of his home, "-OUT THERE KILLING THEM ALL! I'm sick of it! I'm  _sick_ and  _fucking tired_ of this bullshit! Imbeciles constantly running around and killing people they disagree with like we're in the Middle Ages! I'm not a fucking god! I'm not a fucking messiah!"

He paced back and forth, Urz watching him quielty, sensing his owner's vehemence, and allowing him to rant and vent on the creature. Without Tali around, Urz was his only source of comfort, and he made sure to unload all his stress as he bristled, body shaking like a junkie deprived of their drugs, "I am...just...a  _man_! But no...they want to dress me up! Call me a Crusader, and unleash some fake persona on the galaxy that they can point to and say 'he made me do it!' Well  _ **fuck them**_!  **FUCK THEM ALL**! I will not be a scapegoat for terrorists calling themselves my admirers! This Samaritan...this  _fuck_...does not represent me! I am Commander fucking Shepard, not Jesus Christ. I am a soldier, I have fought my battles, and now is my.  **time**.  **to**.  **fucking**.  **REST**!" He punctuated those last four words with constant thumps to his chest. Finally, after a moment or two, he sagged against the archway, breathing in deeply.

The thundering in his eardrums had dissipated sufficiently where he could think clearly. He smacked his lips in appreciation of this fact, and gulped down excess saliva, wiping his chin to remove the spittle that had escaped. He had to admit, it had felt good to finally vent, and with all his feelings now evicted from his body, he could relax and rest back against the wall. He was just glad Tali hadn't been subjected to his rant. She didn't need to hear that.

_Its true. I should be out there, stopping them. That's who I am. Commander Shepard. The hero. The savior. The man who is supposed to make everything right. Instead, I'm lounging around on Rannoch and hoping the problem will go away or that somebody else will deal with it. I'm just...so tired. So fucking tired._

He wiped his face, the prickly bristles of his stubble rubbing against his flat palm as it passed by. His mental exhaustion weighed down on him heavily, and he felt an explosive sigh leaving his lips. He had never felt so helpless. So useless. So entirely...done.

_Everything I've fought for, and these people just want to tear it all down and claim I wanted it. Why...why can't I rest? Is this what retirement is? The torment of fate poking at me and showing me all the things happening around me, all the horrible atrocities and crimes, and reminding me that I could be stopping them, but that I've given up my authority to do so and all I can do is watch it unfold? Is this how veterans feel? To watch wars come and go, while they continue to get older and older, less and less able to participate? Is this my damnation? My habitual coffin?_

In truth, he didn't know. The lack of knowing, of having the ability to find out, scared him more than it was of any comfort. He was used to having all the cards. Gun in hand, ship at his command, and a team of specialists ready to jump feet first into whatever hell he chose to drop them in. Boots caked in mud, armor strapped to his chest and ready to smash whatever enemy he could find into the muck. He was in control. He was powerful. He was an unstoppable machine of destruction. An impetus of death.

And now...he was nothing. He was just a creaky soldier, retired at the age of nearly 30, with no spectre status, no ship, no rank, no armor and no team to call his own. All he had left was a tiny varren named Urz, and the woman he would soon call his wife. He wasn't in control anymore. In the old days, he'd have seen this report, taken the  _Normandy_  straight there, and dealt with it. Now...he was helpless. He couldn't do anything about it. He was forced to watch these events unfold, while he was unable to stop it. It was a terrible feeling.

But now he knew how the average citizen felt.

After a few moments of collecting his thoughts, he finally stood up and looked down at the varren. He couldn't help but scoff up a smile at the determined beast, who must have had an iron will as his positioned remained stationary, undeterred by the rhetoric this human had barked at him. Realizing he must have been hungry, Shepard leaned down and scratched underneath his chin, shaking his head.

"Let's get you something to eat, boy."

So, with Urz at his feet, he turned and entered the kitchen, rifling through the pantry for the varren food his pet so desired. One of these days, he was going to have to learn to come to terms with the fact his old life was over. There would be no going back. He had chosen the life he wished to lead, and he was going to stick it out. For himself. For Tali. He would miss the combat, the adrenaline, the feeling of power. He would miss flying around the galaxy and righting wrongs, dispensing justice and taking down evil, powerful people. Most of all, he would miss the intensity of it all. But all good things come to an end, and even heroes must one day learn to lower their gun and kick up their feet. That was the way of the galaxy. He'd achieved a small measure of peace, and he wasn't going to let that escape.

He would feel helpless. He'd feel weak. But no matter how much knew he couldn't stop the Shepardists, he knew the  _Normandy_ was out there, doing what it always did. He'd had his time, and now Garrus was at the helm, given the spotlight in its entirety. He knew Garrus would get it done.

For now, Shepard had a new mission...to settle down and  _live_.

It would be difficult, but worth it.

* * *

 _Shepardist Headquarters, Nos Astra, Illium - January 15, 2188 - Three days later_.

Garrus pressed himself tightly against the burnt-out husk of a skycar lying on the street, one of the last remnants of the spoliation the Reaper War left behind that hadn't been cleaned up yet. It seemed most of the asari worlds were still recovering from the shock, the illusory invulnerability of the Republics shattered irreparably. As such, their rebuilding effort was the slowest of all the races, with entire districts of Nos Astra, over a year after the fact, still beared the bitter scars of the conflict. Reaper corpses, destroyed skycars, broken bodies as numerous as the debris they lay under...Nos Astra, and the many asari cities like it, were a mess. Looking at them, one would think the war only ended last week.

Right now, the horrors of that war were the last thing on his mind: he was here to prevent one from escalating. Raising his Mantis sniper rifle, he laid it down on the blackened, crumpled sheet of metal that was once the vehicle's roof, eye moving to the scope to scan the area ahead of him. Just five hundred meters down the street was the former Sonax Industries skyscraper that now served as the Shepardist headquarters on Illium and for the entire Milky Way galaxy, not to mention the Good Samaritan's current staging base. The building, like many of those on Nos Astra, was massive, with just under a hundred floors: it looked like a glittering spire in a sea of desolation, a building virtually left untouched by the Reapers' orbital glassing. It came as no surprise the Shepardists had chosen this building, once owned by a defunct company, to be their headquarters.

The  _Normandy_ had only taken a few hours to fuel up and be ready to go, waiting an extra day for Ashley to return from her assignment. From there, it had taken two days to reach Illium. Not wanting to alert the Samaritan and his people to their presence, the ship used its tactical cloaking technology (courtesy of the geth) to hide near Thail, the system's gigantic hydrogen-helium gas giant. From there, they had gone in a pair of shuttles, where they were cleared by the NAPD (with the authority of the planetary government) to land in Nos Astra. From there, it had been simple enough to land the shuttles as close to the building as possible without being seen, and then advancing from there.

After what had happened to Bau, Garrus was fully expecting the Shepardists, more specifically the Samaritan, to put up a fight. As such, he had come loaded to bear, as had his squad: they weren't going to pull punches on this one. The Council would want the Samaritan arrested and brought to the Citadel, but if necessary, he was authorized to kill him if things got out of hand. Garrus had no illusions of what would happen. He knew this could very well turn into a bloodbath. If he could avoid it, good. If not...then at least he came prepared.

He had split his squad into two teams: team one led by him, the other by Ashley. Team one consisted of himself, Churchill, Samara, Jacob and Kasumi, while team two consisted of Ashley, EDI, Miranda, Zaeed and three tactical officers 'on loan' from Citadel Security on the Citadel to aid with the operation. Garrus and his team would scout out the building, report on any activity, and then make entry through the rear, while Ashley's squad would proceed through the front entrance once Garrus had given the all clear.

His group were behind him, currently checking their flanks and preparing themselves for what was coming. Kasumi crouched to his right, tempest submachine gun cradled in her grip, the thief running one last diagnostic on her omni-tool to ensure it worked perfectly. Jacob, armed with an M-22 Eviscerator shotgun, remained prone on the ground, behind the cover of the skycar. Samara was equipped with a Vindicator battle rifle, swapping out the standard fare in exchange for disruptor rounds, in case the Shepardists had kinetic barriers on hand. Churchill, all the while, remained focused on the task, the gigantic geth spitfire mounted on its back, the geth pulse rifle resting at the ready beside it and the Javelin anti-materiel rifle it was using to scan the building with Garrus a demonstration that it was prepared to hit the cultists hard if it came to blows.

Despite his initial anger on the Citadel, his shock at hearing of the death of Bau and the attempt on Linron's life, Garrus wasn't looking for a fight. He wasn't going to run into that structure, guns blazing, tearing the place apart in a hailstorm of bullets and clawing the face of the Samaritan off. He fully intended to apprehend the leader of the cult and his band of psychos with the minimum of bloodshed. That was the plan. And he was sticking with it.

Back in his days during C-Sec, if he had this kind of power, he wouldn't have hesitated to gun these people down. That's just who he was: the kind of man who believed he could save the galaxy and destroy the criminal underworld one scumbag at a time. Its why he had ordered the defense fleet to shoot down Saleon's ship when he realized he was escaping. Why he wanted to kill Harkin when he found out he was using C-Sec resources to aid and hide wanted fugitives. Why he started his own anti-crime hit squad to wage war on Omega's homebrew malefactors. But with Shepard's help, he was able to see the world for what it really was: one that couldn't be fixed by destroying the source of the problem. Crime was an incurable disease: a cancerous tumor that kept coming back, no matter how much chemotherapy you applied. He learnt that the hard way when Saleon escaped. When Shepard talked him down from killing Harkin, and handed him over to the authorities. When he lost his team on Omega, with no discernable change to the system.

Shepard had shown him another path. The world wasn't black and white, and while grey was this vague essence he could never specifically identify, it was one he had come to terms with. And while Shepard had led him most of the way, the man's endgame had always been in sight: ever since he started his not-so-subtle relationship with Tali, the warnings were there. If they survived the war, and they did, Shepard would be done in the business of saving the galaxy. It was an eventuality Shepard had been preparing Garrus for all those years and he hadn't even picked up on it. Grooming him for leadership, giving him command of the squad in occasions where victory wasn't just a desirable outcome, but a desideratum. The hints were there, he just never saw them. And when the time came, Shepard passed the torch to Garrus: chose the turian to continue his legacy. The legacy of commanding the  _Normandy_.

And so he would. Everything Shepard had taught him, he reminded himself of. Garrus had wanted to give up leading anyone after the debacle he spearheaded on Omega, but Shepard wouldn't hear it, and now, he understood why. Leaders didn't get to just up and quit. That's  _why_ they were leaders. They were the ones expected to pick up the sword and keep fighting after everybody else had surrendered: their job to inspire others to do the same. Shepard knew this. After Elysium, he had wanted nothing more than to give up after losing his squad. But he persisted anyway, and he was here today because of it.

It was a brutal lesson, but one Garrus learnt well. He wouldn't fail what he was taught.

So he would resist the urge. The temptation to end them all. That would be too easy. No, he would fight the temptation and capture the Samaritan and his cronies. Make them answer for what they've done. And at the end of the day...that will offer more satisfaction than had he killed them outright.

They spent the next few minutes waiting for Ashley's team to get into position stealthily, while Garrus and Churchill used their sniper rifle scopes to scan the building's lower floors for activity. So far, what worried him was that there is no activity whatsoever. The corridors were empty, nobody walked past the windows, and no guards could be seen outside, protecting the entrances.

"See anything yet?" Kasumi asked, finally lowering her omni-tool and gripping her weapon as she peeked up at him from underneath her hood.

He shook his head, still peeking through the scope as he responded, "Nothing. No guards, no people inside. You'd think they'd have a welcome wagon ready for us. Bau's reports stated they had RAGNAROK series combat mechs for protection, but I've seen none of it. Churchill?"

The geth's confirmation was instant, the machine as still as a statue, "Negative, Vakarian-Commander. I detect no intramural presence of cultist forces, and the lack of electromagnetic signatures within the complex interior suggests no rudimentary synthetic security platforms are present. However, we will continue observation. Circumstances may transmute."

"Maybe they're held up inside," Jacob offered, "Samaritan must know we're coming. He killed a spectre, so he must be smarter than we thought. Maybe he's withdrawn his people and the mechs inside, away from the windows. He wouldn't have them in the open where their asses can be shot."

He huffed, pulling away from his rifle's scope as he looked down at Kasumi, shaking his head. He then turned to Jacob, nodding as he finally lowered the rifle from the car roof, "Its a possibility. But if that's the case, then we have no idea what's waiting for us in there. We'll be going in blind. We need eyes on those people, and we don't have any."

"So we must breach the building," Samara stated, framing the statement almost like a question.

He sighed, scratching the side of his face, "Of course we must. We came here to bring these people in or take them down. However, I'd at least like to know their capabilities or what we're walking into. If Jacob is right, and they know what to expect, then we're effectively walking into a trap. If not, then we're taking a leap of faith and hoping they're not armed to the teeth."

Kasumi just laughed, and he turned, frowning at her. The thief only had a large smirk to offer in return, "Come on Garry, since when has that  _not_ been the case? Shep didn't really care about a lack of intelligence before. Doesn't seem right to start now."

Jacob guffawed, shaking his head with amusement as he shouldered his shotgun, "Goto's got a point, Garrus."

_Yeah...she is. But I'm not Shepard. I'm just living in his shadow and hoping I don't screw it up. I don't have his flair, no matter how much I joke about it. Shepard's irreplaceable. I can never hope to mirror him. He was one of a kind...a jack of all trades. We won't get another person like him, and it certainly won't be me._

"Team one, sitrep," crackled Ashley's voice over the comm.

Eying his team for a moment longer, he brought up his omni-tool, switching to the comm, "Team one here, Ash. Churchill and I can't see a damn thing. Theory is that the cultists have barricaded themselves inside, along with their mechs. If that's the case, there's nothing more we can do about it out here."

A few seconds of silence followed his announcement before Ashley finally offered an acknowledgement, "Seems like we've got no choice but to go in. My team is at the entrance and we're prepped to breach. Just waiting for your go, Garrus. Should we do it?"

That was it: the pregnant pause that followed seemed like an eternity, but in reality, it was only a few seconds. Garrus weighed the consequences and possiblities in his head, trying to picture a scenario where he knew for certain how this would turn out. Ultimately, he had no clue. There was simply no way to know what was waiting for them in there, but he knew they had to do it anyway. The Samaritan and his cultists would only continue their reign of terror if left to their own devices. And if he wasn't going to do it for the Council...then he would do it for Shepard and Tali. For the squad. For what they built.

In that moment, his mind was made up. He nodded, "Solid copy, team two. Move into position and await my mark. We'll move to the rear entrance and assume breaching stance. Let's move, people."

With his orders distributed, Garrus motioned for his squad to fall in line and follow him. Stowing his sniper rifle, he switched to his phaeston rifle, bracing it against his shoulder and lowering his back sufficiently so as to keep his profile obscured from view. He swung out from behind the skycar and moved forward in several long strides, closing the distance between himself and the entrance. Kasumi was close behind him, then Churchill, then Samara, and finally Jacob making up the rear. The five of them kept close formation, sticking together, and their quick dash allowed them to reach the entrance in seconds, Garrus' body coming to rest gently against the wall to the immediate left of the door, with Jacob to the right, Kasumi and Samara behind him, and Churchill behind the turian.

He eyed Kasumi for a moment, and gave a short, quick bob of the head. The thief understood his command, whipped out her omni-tool and quickly began inputting the commands. Moments later, the red, locked interface of the door began to cycle, the program working its magic.

"Team two, we're at the door. Kasumi's hacking it now, we'll be breaching any second now. You're cleared for insertion. Wait for my mark...MARK!"

And just as the order left his mandibles, Kasumi's hack completed its work and the door shot open.

Garrus was first through the opening, his rifle up and scanning the immediate area. Finding no immediate targets in his vicinity, he motioned Churchill and Jacob forward, the heavy hitters using their rifle and shotgun respectively to run a sweep as they moved inside. Not far behind them were Garrus, Kasumi and Samara, moving quickly, but carefully, to ensure they didn't walk into an ambush.

"Clear," Jacob whispered, lowering his weapon, motioning with his fingers down the corridor. Understanding the gesture, Garrus gave a quick nod and, together, the five proceeded down the hall, the clicking and clanking of weapons the only sounds heard as they proceeded in a tight arrow formation. Churchill took point, the geth trooper's stronger kinetic barriers making them the tankiest of their unit, and thus the better choice for moving ahead of them. The trooper-class platform gripped their pulse rifle more tightly and accurately, snapping from door to door with immeasurably calculated precision and speed. The rest followed behind him, keeping up much more slowly.

"This is team two, we're in," Ashley announced, "No contacts yet."

"Same here," Garrus responded, "Move on to the second and third floors. We'll clear the first."

"Wilco," was the curt reply.

Their search continued as directed, going from room to room and searching them thoroughly. They could find no discernable pattern of inhabitance. The rooms were either empty, or looked like nobody had been in them for days. Of course, Garrus just dismissed this as the cultists moving further up the building to buy them extra time to prepare. In any case, they were yet to meet any firm resistance, but that didn't rule out the possibility. Once they were sure the first floor was clear, they took the elevator up to the fourth floor and quickly ran through the same motions.

The result was the same. No occupants. Empty rooms. No ambushes. Ashley's team reported the same on the second and third floors, and once Garrus' unit moved on to the fifth floor, they encountered no difference. As the teams went up, floor by floor, the confusion and frustration began to mount. Their teams further fractured, Garrus allowing Churchill to go off on her own, while Jacob and Samara went off in a pair, leaving Garrus and Kasumi on their own, to cover more ground: upon suggestion, Ashley liked this idea and repeated it, and soon, they were covering several floors at once, instead of just two. Garrus had hoped it allow them to find which floor the cultists were holding it on faster.

It didn't. Nearly twenty-six floors later, and not a single contact had been encountered. Uncertainty mounted between the teams, all of them growing more and more bewildered with their lack of progress. The first few floors was understandable, but they had now covered over a quarter of the building, and they still hadn't come across any sign of life. The rooms looked clean, and there was no trace of a hasty retreat. Elevators worked perfectly, power was still on and there was no evidence of ad hoc barricades or makeshift fortifications. If the cultists had braced for a fight, then they must have done it on the upper levels.

There was simply no other explanation for it: the Council and Illium Republic had reached a mutual agreement to mount a joint effort in neutralizing the threat the Samaritan's people posed. They were monitoring all interstellar traffic, and Illium authorities had the go ahead to seize and impound any and all Faith-registered vessels inbound and outbound from the planet. Effectively trapped on the planet, the Shepardists on Illium had nowhere to go. They could attempt to run, but they would be tracked down eventually. In reality, they had only one option: to make a stand. They stood a better chance of fortifying against a Council assault than to try and run from it.

All evidence pointed towards a Shepardist defensive action. There was no other option open to them. They  _had_ to be here  _somewhere_.

As such, their search continued. Team coordination was a priority, so they rarely ran into each other. Mostly, it was just him and Kasumi scouring whatever floor they were on, while the others searched theirs. Floor by floor, they got higher and higher in the skyscraper, minutes turning into an hour, an hour turning into two. Up and up they went, never ceasing, but never finding anyone either. By the fortieth floor, a low growl was beginning to form in the turian's throat. He couldn't help but think the Samaritan was playing some kind of game with them. Looking up, he wondered if the seemingly inactive cameras were secretly tracing them, but after moving backwards and forward, not seeing them so much as turn to track him, he repudiated that theory.

Kasumi was getting anxious as well, rejoining him in the hallway after yet another empty room was searched, "I have to admit, Garry, I'm impressed. These guys are almost as good as I am at hiding."

"Enough with the nicknames, Kasumi," Garrus snapped, annoyed beyond contention.

Kasumi raised an eyebrow at him, but noticed the seriousness of his tone, "You're getting frustrated, Garrus."

"Damn right I am," he hissed, whirling around a corner only to find, to the shock of no one, that there was nobody waiting for him. They had now cleared the forty-sixth floor. He couldn't help the bitter sigh of resentment as he lowered his weapon, motioning for Kasumi to do the same. They proceeded down the hall, towards the elevator at the end that would take them to the next floor, "Forty-six spirits-be-damned floors, and we haven't encountered a single sign that life was ever in this building. No Samaritan, none of his loons...nothing. I'm beginning to wonder if they're toying with us."

"And you're sure they haven't left?" Kasumi queried, the thief sounding awfully eager to get to the heart of the problem. It appeared she was getting somewhat annoyed with their lack of progress as well, although she was less open about it, "That they're even here?"

"Of course they are!" he shouted, turning towards her in an instant. He quickly reevaluated his tone however, offering another sigh as they reached the elevator, punching in the command for the forty-seventh floor. Rolling his shoulders, he turned towards her, tone apologetic, "Sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. In answer to your question...there can be no other way. The Illium government has standing orders to capture all Faith-branded vessels trying to land on or leave the planet, and it'd be pointless to try and run to another part of the planet because the NAPD surveillance systems will eventually track them down when they pop their head out for air. This building has no basement level, and far as we know, they can't teleport. Holding up here is their  _only_ available alternative!"

As the elevator arrived, and the doors parted, Kasumi lightly punched him in the shoulder before walking in, "Then we'll keep searching, and we'll find them. You need to ease up, Garrus. Its not like we haven't done something worse than this before."

Once inside, the elevator began its ascent, the two of them placing their backs to the glass observation wall behind them as they kept their weapons at the ready, "I know, but this feels personal. Shepard doesn't like these people anymore than the Council does. The attempted lynching of Aria, the attack on Sur'Kesh, the failed attempt on the Council...its all being done with Shepard's non-existent blessing. It has to stop. If he can't, then I will. We're the ones in charge of making this right."

The thief giggled, and he frowned at her for her lack of decorum. She snorted, waving a dismissive hand, "Come on Garrus, Shep wouldn't have entrusted you to handle this if he didn't think you'd keep your cool. Relax. If they're truly as screwed as you think they are, then you've got nothing to worry about and its only a matter of time. Right?"

He looked back to the elevator door as they reached the next floor, his voice low and uncertain, "Right."

In the end, neither of them were right. Not fully.

A full four hours later, Garrus and Kasumi erupted out onto the roof of the building, high speed winds whipping at their faces. As high up in the air as they were, the towering spire stabbing into the heavens, the winds were far less forgiving, and they tore at the two like a howling hurricane. Kasumi's hood was ripped from the top of her head, but the thief paid no mind to her uncovered head, her black locks tied back in a ponytail to keep it from getting in the way. She bit through the warm breeze, keeping her cool as she made sure to search every nook and cranny of the roof. But it was a lost cause.

Finally, baffled, confused and angry, Garrus lowered his weapon and, holding it one hand, reached up the other to punch a ceiling vent full-on. The sound was a clamarous boom that echoed through the air, the dent left by the powerful turian's talons a testament to his temper.

After hours of fruitless searching, the Shepardists were nowhere to be found. Not a single one. Not the Samaritan, not his seconds, not his disciples. Nobody. The building was completely abandoned, and the turian simply couldn't understand  _how_ it could be this way.

Annoyed, but having vented his immediate frustration on the vent, he raised his omni-tool and contacted Ashley, "Team two, we've completed our search. Not a damn thing. Please tell me you've found something.  _Anything_."

It was all bad news, unfortunately, "Sorry team one, we've got nothing. Not a soul to be heard. So unless these guys snuck past us in tactical cloaks, which I very much doubt, then I think we've been outsmarted."

He growled. What Ashley said was beginning to seem like a very real possibility. He didn't know how the Samaritan had done it, but he had. Not only had he evacuated the entire building before Garrus and the  _Normandy_ got here, but he must have found a damn good place to hide to risk trying to run. There was simply no way that he got offworld...unless...

Garrus cursed his own complacency.  _Of course! Damn it all! We should have been blocking ALL traffic on and offworld! The Samaritan must have known we'd be monitoring his own ships, so he smuggled his people away, including himself, on civilian transports! He could have left days ago! Shit!_

Garrus, feeling somewhat defeated, backed up against the vent he had punched and allowed the magnetic grip on his hip to latch onto his assault rifle, the clamp giving a subtle clomp as it attached. Kasumi joined him quickly, her jovial attitude receding as she raised a hand and gently squeezed his shoulder, offering her own reassurance. While he welcomed the presence, it had no effect on him. In the end, they had been outmaneveured by a bloody band of cultists led by a madman.

Suddenly, his comm crackled, Churchill's voice heard coming through, "Vakarian-Commander, I have encountered resistance on the eighty-third floor."

Standing up suddenly, alerted by the declaration, the turian compelled to reach down and grab his rifle, which he did, holding it with the barrel pointed towards the sky as he responded, eyes wide, "How many contacts do you have, Churchill? We'll be right there."

"That will not be necessary, Vakarian-Commander," Churchill declared, the geth sounding almost...remorseful. The clip clop of her feet on the metal floor could be heard through the comms, its pace suggesting a lack of urgency, "The situation has been rectified. I regret to inform you that hostile organic forces have been terminated. There five of them. One turian, four humans, two batarians."

His optimistic pace ceased immediately, coming to stop at the door they had used to get onto the roof, where he turned and backed against the wall once more, rifle lowering to point at the floor, "I...how? Why didn't you take them prisoner?"

"I ordered them to surrender. I informed them of my superior firepower, my superior position and that they would be rendered non-functional if they attempted resistance. Capitulation was their only option," Churchill replied, sounding confused as the sound of its feet turned from dull thuds to that of a liquidy, squelching sound. Garrus recognized it as that of blood being stepped on the moment the geth stopped moving, "They...opened fire. They refused to drop their weapons. They were armed with pistols: their firepower was insufficient to penetrate my defensive systems. I gave them ten seconds further to acquiesce. They refused. Eventually...they started using disruptor rounds. I...had no choice, Vakarian-Commander."

He cursed underneath his breath, teeth mashing together intensely.

_Finally find some of them...and now they're dead._

It was like a comedy routine. An ironic and bitter punchline to an unfair joke. After three days of preparation, the squad had reached the building with the intent of ending this conflict before it could begin: bringing the Samaritan in and dissolving the Faith in one fell swoop. Instead, all they got was an empty building and a few left behind cultists. There might have been more inside, but if his team and Ashley's couldn't find anyone, then it was likely Churchill wouldn't uncover much more.

They had failed. The Samaritan and his cult had slipped right under their radar, outsmarting them in a maneveur Garrus should have seen coming. Should have predicted and combatted it. The sense of feeling lost was one he wasn't used to, at least not since the war had ended.

But it wasn't over. The Samaritan may have escaped, but that would only lead the Council to stage a galaxy-wide manhunt. He would be found, and there was only so many places to hide: eventually, he would need to poke his head out to breathe, and that's when the  _Normandy_ would descend upon him and take him down. Garrus wouldn't let this small defeat hinder them. There was still so much riding on his success. It just meant that the  _Normandy_ crew would need to draw on their more salient resources.

_We've underestimated this guy, obviously. But even devious bastards like him can't run forever...one day he'll be in a situation where he can't run, and that's when he'll come undone. That's when we'll arrest him...or eliminate him. Either way, I won't give up. This isn't over. We'll find him. We'll just need to try harder._

Wiping his face, waving at Kasumi to let her know he was okay, he brought up his omni-tool to his face, "Ashley, have your team meet up on the twentieth floor, and find the Samaritan's quarters. I want the place turned upside down and torn apart for hints on where these people might have gone. Any shred of evidence you can scrounge up will be good enough. Churchill, search the bodies of those dead cultists: see what you can find. I'm going to return to the  _Normandy_ and see if I can't get Liara's help in finding out where they are."

"Copy that, Garrus," was Ashley's response.

"Affirmative," Churchill acknowledged.

"You coming?" he asked, omni-tool deactivated and now facing the young thief at his side.

She shook her head, "No, I think I'll head down and help Ashley find some leads. I'm a master thief, so I might pick up on some things she'd miss."

"Good idea," he nodded to her once more. Taking this as a confirmation, Kasumi made a hasty exit, holstering her SMG as she exited back through the ceiling door, the clanging of her footsteps heard as she ran down the steel maintenance stairway. Alone, the Nos Astran breeze slapping at his face and armor, the warmth of Tasale wrapping him in a thick blanket, the turian raised his omni-tool once more, contacting the  _Normandy_ using a specialized link.

Wherever the Samaritan was, he would be found. Wherever he was.

* * *

 _Shepardist Sanctuary, Sanctum - January 16, 2188 - A day later_.

The plan had worked perfectly.

The Good Samaritan was elated by their success, in a manner of speaking. His proposal to evacuate the Shepardists from their former headquarters on Illium was a bold one, and in truth, many hadn't believed it would work. The Samaritan knew the NAPD and planetary government for Illium were monitoring inbound traffic for vessels of their Faith, and so attempting to leave via those means would be risky, if not suicidal. The only reason the NAPD hadn't stormed their complex was because they were waiting for a Spectre squad to do it.

Their group knew they couldn't hope to take on a well-armed Spectre task force, so the Samaritan knew the key to their survival as an organization was to get offworld. The location had been chosen, they only needed the means. Which hadn't taken long to scrounge up. Hijacking a civilian cargo vessel docked at a spaceport made it easy for them to leave Illium, and from there, getting to Sanctum, which was several clusters away but still in the Terminus Systems, had been a monumentally easier task to perform.

He had regretted the decision to run and hide, seeing it as a step backwards for the Faith, but he knew it had been necessary. As soon as they had formulated the plan, the Samaritan had ordered his people to ransack and empty the building of all important items and valuables, making sure to purge the internal mainframe databases of any information vital to their operations or which might compromise their location. He had thought ahead on this, and his people had proceeded at due haste. Within two days, the building was emptied. Next, Krend had led a special group of their people to the targetted vessel, and with the help of one of their geth members, they hacked into its security and managed to sneak onboard without dock security picking up on it. They loaded their cargo onto the ship, but were forced to leave their mech forces behind, as trying to load them onto the captured ship would arouse too much suspicion. Once they were convinced they were safe, they left, met up with their own transports on the edge of the system, and equally made their way to Sanctum: the new home for the Faith of the Crusader.

Upon inspection of Shepard's activities during the Collector campaign, the Good Samaritan had chosen this planet, Sanctum, to be their new headquarters. It was perfect: far from the prying eye of the Citadel Council, beneath the notice of any Terminus-based governments and, most of all, its location was a secret. More importantly, the abandoned Blue Suns camp they had chosen for their hideout was built into the face of a small hill, with the facility inside carved underground. It would keep them from being noticed by passive orbital surveillance sensors, and the only way anybody would know anything was up was if they came down to look for themselves. Put quite simply, it was perfect.

Of course, it wasn't going to be a cake walk either. The first problem presented to the group was that they no longer possessed access to space docks, which meant materials transported to them via transports had to be delivered via shuttle: luckily for them, the old Blue Suns camp possessed two landing pads at the front for just this very purpose. Another issue was they could no longer conduct their operations in the open, and as of this moment, an air of secrecy surrounded the Faith. Transactions, purchases and other activities would require maximum silence, and as such, would make things difficult.

Another problem was Sanctum itself: the planet wasn't exactly hospitable to organic life. It was somewhat of an extreme overcompensation, with both the northern and southern poles blanketed in freezing ice storms that went on day and night, with temperature drops of up to negative fifty degrees celsius. The only habitable strip of land was at the equator, but that wasn't exactly warm either, with an average of four degrees total. This meant the only settlement, the planet's capital of Vulpes, had a relatively small population of around 200,000, and Sanctum itself didn't see much civilian traffic outside of corporations utilizing 'ice cracking' operations to get at the rich platinum, palladium and boron deposits. To make matters worse, pirate attacks, at least prior to the Reaper War, were high on Sanctum.

The Samaritan wasn't deterred by this: instead, this bolstered his confidence in the planet as a hideout. The small population of the planet meant less people were likely to come snooping around, and Vulpes was located on the other side of the planet from where they were, decreasing this likelihood even further. The cold weather wasn't a deterrent either, and served mostly as a minor inconvenience. No matter how much one put it, the planet was simply perfect as a substitute for Illium. The secrecy and privacy it awarded them compared to the bustling asari city world was too much to pass up.

It wasn't going to be easy, he knew that much. Already, they had run into a multitude of other problems. The base's age and abandonment meant that rotting Blue Suns bodies left over from Shepard's raid on the facility had to be removed, and the dried blood cleaned up. Some areas were poorly lit or had no power at all, so the generators needed fixing. Nature had reclaimed some rooms, with one of the living quarters being overgrown with a native tree and other assorted plants. It was a shambles.

Despite these setbacks, Jenna was hard at work leading the effort to restore the place to somekind of reasonable state. Their technicians were dealing with power issues, the plants and tree were being cut back and the room reclaimed, and the corpses were taken far away and dumped. None of these incumbrances meant anything. They would be fixed in due time, and by the end of the day, they were making good progress. Within a week, the facility would be semi-operational, and the Shepardists would be back in business.

At this very moment, he was exploring the confines of his new private quarters. When he had investigated this place, he had quickly found the former office of the station's administrator, from before the facility was claimed by the Blue Suns. It looked to be, overall, in good condition: the desk was overturned, the paint on the walls was beginning to tear and flake, and the light flickered occasionally as power was disproportionately fed into it, but aside from that, it was workable. The walls were negligible, he had flipped the desk back into its proper position and he was assured the technicians would deal with the lighting system once they got around to it. Satisfied with his spacious new quarters, he had spent the next couple of days unloading his stuff from the transport, and having it placed inside. His bed, his bag, his private terminal and Incisor sniper rifle, and finally some basic amenities such as cups and bowls, a toothbrush and an electric razor. The room was as set up as it was going to be.

Just what he needed to spearhead this operation.

With no extranet connection yet, he had taken to sifting through the files on his terminal, mentally recapping to himself what they had done so far. Just as he was reading through them, he heard a knock on the door. Having expected such an occurrence, he shut down the terminal, hands clasped in his lap as he nodded to the door, "Come in!"

The door shut open, and Conrad Verner stepped through the threshold. His posture was attempting some kind of professional composure, but he was slack at the shoulders and had a slight slouch. While the Samaritan wouldn't exactly label Verner as physically lethargic, the general image he portrayed was that of somebody who was weak and frail. Not exactly one you'd like to have as the leader of a cult. Good thing the Samaritan took over when he did.

_These are the sort of men who lead organizations such as this to their destruction. Evoking strength, but truly withered and aged at the core. No backbone._

"Here's the report you wanted," Conrad declared, stepping forward to place the datapad he had brought with him on the desk, where it rested facing away from the Samaritan. He reached forward and grabbed it, leaning backwards again to read it over it, while Conrad stood and waited. He nodded along to it, but once he reached the final paragraph, he sighed, looking up to read Conrad's expression. Verner, to his credit, merely scratched his beard, waiting for the Samaritan to speak further.

Placing the datapad back down, he met Conrad's eyes with his own, locking him with a firm gaze that looked to test the man's resolve, "You still have doubts. Objections. You listed as such at the end of your report. You don't believe we can make this work?"

Conrad's tongue could be seen working its way around his mouth, poking the inside of his cheek as he thought of a response. He blinked a few times, parting his lips to open his mouth dumbly for a few seconds, saying nothing. Then he finally spoke, stance straightening for a moment before slouching again, "I...yes, I do. If I may ask Good Samaritan, what are we hoping to accomplish by doing this? We're on the run from the Citadel Council. We're criminals now. Why would the Crusader want us to get in trouble with the authorities?"

He sighed, long and hard, rubbing his eyes as he pushed himself up to stand from his seat, hands clasped behind his back, "Its simple. The Crusader  _expects_ sacrifice. Its a biological imperative. We sacrifice our freedom, our liberty, our ability to live under the law, so that we may continue the work unimpeded. The Council wishes to obstruct our progress. They send a spectre to try and abduct me, and when that fails, they send more and brand us criminals and terrorists. Do you not see where this is going, Conrad? Have we, as humans, so quickly forgotten the persecutions of our history? The Shepardists are being persecuted.  _That_ is why we are doing this. We've been left with no choice. They've given us none."

Conrad's eyes followed him as he moved around the desk, coming to stand infront of it and, by the same token, beside the former leader himself. He looked far more comfortable in the Samaritan's presence now, and his posture seemed to subconsciously straighten as a tribute to this. Crossing his arms, he continued, "Our beliefs pit us against the Council by default. The Crusader's wish was for galactic unity and harmony, and what have we got? The politicians continue their games and nothing changes. They've forsaken his plan, waited for him to disappear into the shadows of obscurity, and retreated back into their old ways. It will never change...unless we act. We must set aside our doubts and bring forth our faith. The Crusader cannot fight yet, but he will. We are his warriors, his disciples. When the time comes for his return, the galaxy will need to be ready. We must ready it. That's our purpose, Conrad. Never doubt it."

Conrad looked aghast, as if he had just been dumped into a lecture by a professor who was speaking words he couldn't even fathom. Licking his lips, overwhelmed by the Samaritan's reasoning, he could only shrug, "I...know...I know what we must do. What we must become. But it all seems so...far fetched. And how will we know of the Crusader's return? What is the spark that will bring him back?"

The Samaritan smiled, straightening up and slapping Conrad on the shoulder with exaggerated joviality, "NOW you're getting to the heart of it. What will bring the Crusader back? An excellent question! While I can't answer that question, because I don't know the answer, I can tell you that perhaps you'll play a part in bringing forth one." He quickly made his way back around the desk, plopping himself back down in his chair.

_Yes, Mr. Verner. You may just play a vital part. Perhaps tantamount to the spark that lights the fire. Your involvement may just be what brings the Crusader out of hiding. Yes. Yes, that will work._

Conrad, understandably, frowned at this vague suggestion, not fully sure what he could be alluring to, "Me? What part could I possibly play in bringing about the Crusader's return?"

"An important one," he stated simply, placing his hands firmly ontop of his desk, the dusty, neglected surface in desperate need of a clean, "One that may just bring about the Advocation."

Conrad's befuddlement only deepened at the introduction of this new term, "The Advocation? What's that?"

_What is it indeed? Where did that word come from?_

The Samaritan could only assume this was another one of those words that just sprung up in his mind whenever it was convenient, either unlocking yet another answer to his past, or helping him in his quest to exalt. Whatever this 'Advocation' would be wasn't quite clear yet, but if it pertained to the Crusader, then he knew it had to be sacrosanct. The evacuation of their Illium headquarters had already put them behind schedule somewhat, forcing him to put some of his plans on hold. However, the Samaritan had proved to be quiet adaptable, and much of the trip to Sanctum had been spent formulating a new plan: a way to get them back on track and back in the game.

Dismissing Conrad's question for the moment, as he had no answer to offer, he continued, "You, and the rest of our organization, will find out in due time. For now, we must focus on the present, and we have much to do. Now, I said you would have a part to play in the Crusader's return. This is not hyperbole. Its taken me a while to reach this decision, but I believe its time. You are aware of recent measures I've taken regarding our organization?"

Conrad gave a hesitant nod, his physical comportment improving somewhat as he got more confident in the Samaritan's presence. His lack of an intimidating presence made it easy to get complacent when talking to him. It probably helped that Krend was out helping bring the facility online, and thus wasn't protecting him right now, "I've heard of the new measures you've put in place, yes. The Recall directive."

"Correct," he affirmed, tapping lightly at the desk, "Mankins and Amarp's premature actions on Sur'Kesh have put us in a very precarious position. And, from what I hear, that fool Heius has made her own attempt on the Citadel: now we've lost them and most of the Sur'Kesh cell. This idiocy can't be allowed to continue. The Faith is divided enough as it is, but to have our own people, in this organization, inadverently working to bring it down...that can't happen. So...I had an idea. The Recall directive, as of now, is in full force, and you're going to help, in your own little way."

The poor man just couldn't catch a break. The constant look of confusion etched on his face just got deeper and deeper, "Good Samaritan, forgive me, but you haven't gotten into any details about this 'Recall directive'. What is it exactly?"

"Unification, Mr. Verner," he elaborated, holding up his hands in a grand gesture, like he was unveiling a new building plan to a group of investors, "We're divided. Whilst we remain scattered across the galaxy, maintaining a loose definition of the term 'communication' and 'coordination', we are vulnerable. Whether it is Aria's syndicates and the mercenary gangs on Omega, or the Citadel Council and their secret war with us, its all the same: divide and conquer. We cannot continue this way: they will irreversibly destroy us. The Recall directive will fix this problem once and for all: secretly and discreetly,  _all_ Shepardists, from all across the galaxy, will come to live with us...here, on Sanctum."

Conrad's eyes widened at that, mouth opening and closing as he tried to apprehend what he had just heard. Finally, he laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, "That's...ambitious, Mr. Samaritan. I...I don't...I mean...how exactly are you...going to pull it off? All our transports and ships are under suspicion. If so much as one transport gets-"

"-tracked back here?" the Samaritan finished for him, and upon seeing Conrad's nod, he felt himself snort a little, rubbing the edge of his nose, "Give me some credit, Mr. Verner. I've thought about this very carefully. The idea they would track us has come to my attention, and it'll be dealt with. I'm having our technicians strip the transports of their Faith-based IFFs, replacing them with randomized civilian shipping codes. Not only that, but all those Shepardists willing to come to us on Sanctum will board the transports on Omega, not the worlds themselves. Those transports will then jump to random systems, hopefully throwing off any wouldbe pursuers, and  _then_ head for Sanctum."

"What about our people themselves? They could be tracked straight-"

"Again, this has been addressed," he cut off, growing annoyed with the constant second-guessing of his plan. Conrad was always a bit dim-witted during meetings, but the true extent of it never failed to anger him sometimes, "In fact, that very issue is exactly the role you will play. As we speak, missionaries are being dispatched via shuttle to all the core worlds that we have cells on. The ones that are still active, that is."

This seemed to tick in Conrad's mind for a bit, the silence confusing him. Finally, after around a minute, his eyes widened fully, and he looked at the Samaritan dead on. He only stared back at the man, allowing his lack of words to be a confirmation of what the man had just heard.

"You...you want me to be one of these missionaries? Why?"

"Why not?" the Samaritan offered back, "You're charismatic. The people of this organization were attracted to your spirit and admiration for the Crusader, and that's what brought them together. I may have forged the Faith into what it is now, but you paved the way to make it happen. You laid the first block. I need that same spirit now. I need you to go to Rannoch, find the Shepardists based there, and convince them to come here. The other missionaries will do the same on their respective worlds. Your focus is the Rannochian cell, and only them. I have another reason for sending you there as well."

"Yes?" Conrad asked, his eagerness overcoming his hesitance as the old leader began to resurface from underneath the shroud he had placed on himself.

"The Crusader," he stated simply, breathing in through his nose deeply, hands gripping the desk, "I need you to go to his house. Reassure him that his supporters are alive and well, and that we're awaiting his rise. Inform him that we, the Faith of the Crusader, wait for his command, and make sure he knows we can do it. The Crusader needs reassurance of our belief, and he shall have it. You will be our voice."

Stuttering for a moment, the man rubbed his chin, shaking his head, "But...I don't know where Shepard lives! Nobody does! How will I be able to-"

"I do. I know where he lives. I've seen his house. I will provide you with the coordinates," with a few swipes of his omni-tool, he had dispatched the exact location of the Shepard residence via message, a fact that was confirmed by Conrad's omni-tool flashing several times in receivership, "And now...you know what you have to do. The fate of all the Faith rests on your shoulders, Conrad. You must deliver this message to the Crusader, and get our people off of Rannoch before its too late. I'm trusting you with this task, because I know you can do it. I need Krend here to help me with operations, and I've assigned Jenna as missionary to Earth. So tell me, because I need to know...can you do it?"

It took a moment, Conrad looking at the desk's surface, to assemble an answer, but when he finally did, it was with a fire in his eyes that the Samaritan hadn't seen before, "I can do it. I've spoken with Shep-I mean, the Crusader, before. He knows me. He'll listen to me. And I'll get our people off of Rannoch, I promise. You can trust me."

 _I surely hope so. For your sake, and theirs._ "I knew I could. Now go, you have quite the journey ahead of you. And there is much work to be done."

Ramrod straight, Conrad nodded firmly and solemnly, "Yes, Good Samaritan, I will make it so! Glory to the Crusader!"

"Glory to the Crusader," he returned, a mere mutter by comparison, before immediately turning back to his terminal, turning it back on. Conrad was gone moments later, door closing behind him with a painfully slow, grating sound, making him wince at hearing it. Another problem in this place that needed fixing.

_I'm placing a lot of responsibility in that man's hands, but I have no choice. I can't do everything myself, and its too risky leaving the confines of this planet to go do it. Virtually every Council world is bound to know my face by now, and all it would take is one person recognizing me for it all to be ruined. No, I must remain here, where I can be more efficient. Let Conrad, Jenna and the others figure it out. Soon, our numbers will grow, and I'll have more members...more warriors...to help me with our work._

The Samaritan had to wonder just what direction he was taking this group in. It still felt as if he was making it up as he went along, like he was working his way through a fog and improvizing based on what he encountered. Usurping Conrad. Killing Bau. Evacuating Illium. Establishing a base on Sanctum. The Recall directive. Sending Conrad to speak with the Crusader himself. Every new development was one he hadn't planned in advance, but had simply...done. But despite all of this uncertainty, he could still feel an endgame in sight...and he didn't know if that should worry him or not.

He growled, shaking off the nagging suspicion in his head.  _No, this is the way its meant to be. Would it have worked out as well as it has if it wasn't? No, the work must be completed. There is no room for doubt. I must build this place up, make it a haven...a sanctuary...for our people. And once that is completed, I must find out whatever this Advocation is...and what importance it holds towads the Crusader's return. And soon._

Tides were turning. Pawns on the chessboard were moving forward. And the Samaritan planned to be there when everything fell into place.

Yes, the Faith would be the Crusader's weapon. His sword. His army. He knew that now. And an army needed soldiers. Weapons. Provisions. They needed to be prepared for a war.

And in that moment...he knew that was the next step. Armament.

The Samaritan set about his work, pushing forward with a renewed sense of purpose, his mind flashing images filled with new ideas and possibilities. Of concepts for the future.

A future with the Crusader wielding galactic hegemony.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**Things just keep getting interesting, eh? The Samaritan is making his play, Garrus has suffered his first setback, and Shepard is still coming to terms with his new role in the galaxy: passive observer. I can certainly say that I'm more motivated to write EQC (EQuilibrium Crusader, if you're wondering) now that its beginning to amp up, but I'll also say that we're nowhere near done yet. In fact, as of the upload of this chapter, we are 20 percent of the way into the story...not even a quarter of the way through. So there's plenty more buildup to go around. I promise Chapter 8 is going to amp it up even further though... ;)** _

_**You know the routine: I'll be doing the next Flashpoint prompt (Snapshot 13) next before I do Chapter 8. This routine actually helps, because working on the Flashpoint prompts helps me to get motivated for writing the next chapter of EQC. So, thanks for that!** _

_**Music suggestions:** _

**Crisis Meeting: "He's in Tangier" by John Powell from the film** _**The Bourne Ultimatum.** _

**Fan Admiration: "Cognitive Degrade" by James Newton Howard from the film** _**The Bourne Legacy.** _

**Shepard's Rant: "The Pipe" by Thomas Newman from the film** _**Brothers.** _

**Headquarters Raid: "Armoured Vehicle" by Jóhann Jóhannsson from the film** _**Sicario.** _

**Welcome to Sanctum: "Stalking Carl" by John Williams from the film** _**Munich.** _


	9. Uncouth Heathen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tali discusses the upcoming wedding with Shala'Raan and Kahlee Sanders. Garrus and Shepard argue. Balak gets his due.

" _Hero-worship is strongest where there is least regard for human freedom._ " - Herbert Spencer.

* * *

 _Admiral Raan's cubicle, Rannoch - January 12, 2188 - Four days earlier_.

Tali could still scarcely believe this was happening. She had repeated it multiple times in her head, pinched her wrist beneath the suit (as difficult as it was) to try and wake up from whatever ostensible dream state she was trapped in and even whispered under her breath her destined full name.

Tali'Zorah was getting married. It was almost surreal to acknowledge, but it was true. Repeating it in her head only helped the reality set in, pinching her wrist didn't follow with her waking in a bed on the  _Normandy_ in the midst of a war, and whispering her soon-to-be married full name only sent chills up her spine.

Tali'Shepard. Its a name that simply...worked. Like it was meant to be.  _That's silly, of course. Nothing is destined. The Ancestors didn't guide my path towards John. There was no clash of the fates where our mutual actions led us to meet in that alleyway. I have to admit though, the connection was there almost from the start. Not quite like Bellicus and Shalei on that balcony...no love at first sight. But from the moment we had our first conversation after I joined his crew...there was something about him. I didn't know what that feeling at the time was, or even if it held any tangible meaning. Perhaps it was the same for him?_

She stiffled a giggle at her own adolescent thoughts.  _Keelah...I'm getting far too sentimental. What matters is that he felt the same, we got together...happy ending. And here we are getting bonded. Everyone will be there...the whole crew, everybody I know...possibly even the admirals. I can just imagine the look of disgust on Xen's face. And I'm sure Javik will be just flummoxed by it all. By why do I care? Both of them are stubborn, arrogant bosh'tets. At least I fought beside Javik. Xen is just...argh._

Despite her mental procrastination, her mind as it always did, would drift straight back the original topic, and the name 'Tali'Shepard' slid back into her cerebral periphery once more.  _It sounds...so foreign. But also...right. Shepard isn't even a word in my people's language, yet I'll be taking it as my last name. I've been known as a 'Zorah' all my life. Its a clan I've been proud to be a part of, and it'll always be a part of me in some way. Clan Zorah dates back to the founding of the first city-state, back to the time of the ancient clans of Rayya, Shellen, Bakala, Zorah and Gerrel. We tempered the militant Reegars, traded with the Naras and wiped out the evil ceths. I'm a direct descendant of Reby'Zorah the Pathfinder herself, and it was a Zorah that defeated the batarians at the Battle of Pragia during the Quarian-Batarian War of the 1400s. That will never change. I will always be a Zorah...but now I can be more. In just over a month, I'm going to be a Shepard. A new clan. A strong clan. A clan that saved the galaxy three times. I will be the Reby to Clan Shepard, and John will be the Han. Together, we'll forge a new clan. And have plenty of-_

The mental roadblock she slammed into was the equivalent of a car hitting 70 inches of concrete at 100 kilometers per hour. The effect was disorienting, and she had to blink a few times, frowning, to recompose her abstractions. As was customary for her, she had wandered too far into the realms of fiction, the only difference being that this realm of fiction was  _never_ going to be a reality.

_I can never give him that. I can never have that with him. There's no point in discussing it. Its biologically impossible. Silly girl._

But she wasn't a girl. She was a woman. And that only made her little fictions all the worse. She needed a way to forget where her thoughts just drifted. If she lingered any further, only depression would begin to set in, and she didn't want to be depressed when facing such a contradictingly joyous moment. No, she needed to focus on something else. Anything.

And by the ancestors, she got it. Her eyes, almost as if prompted by somekind of programming that had been activated by some hidden mental switch, descended from the wall she had been blankly staring at to the band on her wrist, and she couldn't help the dopey, but full, smile that slid across her lips. Reaching under it with a finger, she pulled it back and released it, feeling the satisfying, but stinging, slap of the band as it retracted back to its former position in a flash. This band may have just seemed like a normal, rubber band to any non-quarians. But to her, and those who knew her, it was a symbol of her bond. Her impending marriage. Of her union with Shepard.

 _Wife. Not a term I ever thought I'd hear associated with me. This really_ _**is** _ _happening._

Her distraction had worked, and any further musing on the aforementioned predicament evaporated from her mind, replaced with euphoric realization. Without really intending it, or any actual subconscious control exerted over it, the organic predilection to begin fidgeting took over, food tapping against the floor while she bit her lower lip. These were all actions she was aware of, but had not implemented action against. Shepard had told her these little mannerisms of hers were something he found endearing, and while initially embarassed by it all, she had eventually seen it as something positive. Her days of wringing fingers were few and far behind her, but every now and then, whenever she got giddy or nervous, similar foibles would upraise once more.

With a silent, restrained sigh, Tali looked up from her band, tapping it once more for catharsis, taking in her surroundings. The small cubicle that her Aunt Shala had been allocated as a home made Tali feel somewhat guilty everytime she saw it: a sense of self-imposed, but couldn't otherwise be helped, penitence that was arose in her mind when she realized the contrast between where she lived and what every other quarian lived in. Here Tali was, waking up every morning in a nice fluffy mattress in a two-storey, nearly fifteen room manor with the ability to lock down and decontaminate every room, effectively allowing her to leave her suit if she wished, with acres upon acres of land to call hers, while most quarians were living in tiny cubes with nothing but a worn box, a flat pillow and a blanket to call a bed, and all the basic amenities and nothing else. Her heart sunk low whenever she bore witness to it, and it made her feel execrable for what she had over her own people. Shala consistently told her not to worry about it, that she had earned the right to live that way, but it didn't make the feeling any better. The only reason she didn't insist on abandoning that house and having both herself and Shepard live in a cube somewhere in El'Tivv was because of all the hard work Shepard, while still recovering from devastating injuries, had gone into making said house.

After all, she couldn't just throw away everything he had worked for. That they had both worked for. And thus, her more altruistic sense of justice was held back by Shepard. Perhaps his rhetoric about her 'being a little selfish for a change' was finally having an effect on her. Damn that man.

As was the norm when it came to quarian housing, Raan's home was fairly unremarkable. The design followed the quarian architectural philosophy of keeping everything elementary, disregarding the ostentatious nature in which other species' built their homes. There was no attempt to impress or intimidate, and luxury wasn't even attempted: they were built with resource scarcity in mind, with every single detail following this mantra. Space was small and cramped. Personal amenities and effects were kept to a bare minimum, and what few items an individual owned was usually kept on their person anyway, hidden away in some section of their suit. The walls were barren and sterile, and the configuration was designed not with comfort in mind, but refinement. Essentially, the quarian home was a residence one lived in, and not one that held any real sentimental value.

Most of these housing cubicles were former quarters on the Migrant Fleet. The quarians had been quick to build the foundations for their renewed civilization using what they had: the geth were helping build new infrastructure, but it would take years for El'Tivv to develop into a proper city, and the quarians wouldn't be satisfied continuing to live in ships in orbit over their homeworld. So, a compromise: non-essential vessels would be brought to the geth's shipyards for decommissioning, dismantled, and their numerous facilities brought planetside to be repurposed as living quarters. The liveship  _Bakala_ was scheduled to receive this treatment in two years, followed by the  _Rayya_ and  _Shellen_ in the years following. According to Raan, this very cubicle was her old quarters on the  _Tonbay_ , prior to her former flagship being decommissioned and turned into housing units. This program only affected the Civilian Fleet, as the rest of the ships that were formerly apart of the Flotilla had been reorganized into the Quarian Republic's navy, with the geth helping to modify the warships to adapt them to their new role of planetary and territorial defense, rather than fleet escort duty. The quarians didn't have dreadnoughts yet, but the geth were more than willing to use their own as auxiliaries until such time as their creators could build their own.

Tali's quick survey of the room was quick and studious, only taking into account objects of relevancy. As such, her gaze quickly landed and fixed on the single holoframe hanging from the wall: she sighed wistfully as she looked at the frozen memory, the picture being of her family in its entirety. Tali, only seven years old, with her mother and father, Meru and Rael respectively, standing on both sides of her. All three of them were fully suited, but love demonstrated amongst the group was palpable, Meru's hands resting proudly on her daughter's shoulders, while Rael stood with his hands clasped behind his back, head held high, but turned towards his wife and daughter. Shala, being one of Meru's best friends and Tali's non-biological aunt, had loved the picture and hung it from her cubicle, although it was likely also there to act as a testament to what was, and what no longer could be.

She tried not to regard the holograph with some sadness. Her mother had died three years after that picture was taken, joining dozens of others in death when a decontamination oversight allowed a dextro-transmittable virus to enter the ship's ventilation system, infecting dozens of quarians before the ship was quarantined and purged. By then, it was too late: those infected were beyond saving, and Tali's final moments with her mother were spent in a medical bay. Her father, devastated by her death, then buried himself in his work, neglecting his daughter in the process, and before Tali got the chance to make him repent and act like a proper father, he too was killed by sudden circumstances...this one an experiment gone wrong. Tali had lost both her parents...and the only family she had after that was Shala. And maybe Gerrel, who practically considered himself her uncle. But Shala was really the only one who truly felt like family to her.

In a month, that would change: she would marry Shepard, and she would finally have a new family. Perhaps, in a way, she already did just by serving on the  _Normandy_. The crew of the now galaxy famous stealth frigate had looked out for her more than many of her own people had. She had their backs in combat, and they had hers. She had bled and wept beside them, and she'd have taken a bullet for Joker, Wrex, Garrus, Shepard...even EDI. So, in a way, ever since that fight for her life in the alleyway on the Citadel, she had already joined a new family. And she couldn't be more proud of it.

Most of her sadness stemmed from the fact neither her mother or father had lived long enough to see their daughter join her life with another. She knew her father would never have approved of her relationship with Shepard, but Meru would have eventually turned him around: she had always been great at debate. Not having either of them alive to see and experience this moment with her left a feeling of emptiness in her heart...like a large chunk of it had simply phased out of existence, and she was constantly aware of it. She took solace in knowing she wasn't alone in feeling this pain: Shepard himself had now lost both his parents. While Tali had never met his father, as he died during the First Contact War as the result of a turian artillery strike, she had met his mother, Hannah, and was deeply saddened when she heard she had been killed during the final battle over Earth when she rammed her dreadnought into  _Harbinger_ to delay him and buy her son more time to reach the Beam. Her sacrifice had been a heroic, and she had been posthumously promoted to Vice Admiral for her service, but the news of her death had hit Shepard hard. This was only made worse by the fact that his adoptive father, Anderson, had also died on the Citadel during the final battle...at least Shepard was there for him at the end.

The two shared each other's grief: they had both lost their parents, but at least they had each other. And while Shepard would have liked to have Hannah and Anderson there at his wedding, he knew that was not possible. He had initially thought about inviting Hackett, but the admiral was busy cleaning up the mess on Earth, and wouldn't be able to take the time off needed to get to Rannoch, but expressed his congratulations anyway. In the end, Shepard had invited Kahlee Sanders, Anderson's paramour, instead, believing that she, as the woman who had captured Anderson's heart, deserved to be there in Anderson's place. The woman had practically dropped whatever she had going on Grissom's Academy and had left for Rannoch the moment she had found out.

Quarian bonding ceremonies were a somewhat...complicated affair. The night Shepard had proposed to Tali, the two of them had spent sometime in bed talking to each other, where he brought up the topic of quarian bondings. Tali explained that they weren't too different from human weddings, but were a bit more complex. As Tali understood it, human ceremonies involved the groom and bride declaring their vows before a representative, and that was it...mostly. Quarians took their bondings very seriously, and therefore meticulous work was put into emphasizing all the significant aspects of it. Bondings were seen as a larger theme of family, and thus said family was given extraordinary involvement. The bride and groom, or the  _gesh't_ and  _kmec'co_  in khelish, were to each choose a Speaker, Confidant (human equivalent would be best man/best woman), Protector and Support. The Speaker represented the person the groom/bride had spoken to speak on their behalf, representing a strong familial bond. The Confidant was the person they had a deep personal trust with, and someone they could share their deepest secrets with. The Protector was the guardian, the one trusted to rush to their aid in times of need and, if necessary, protect them to the death. The Support represented the moral center, the one trusted to maintain their moral compass and judge their bonding impartially. These four people were seen as the very core of the bonding itself, and without them, no bonding could take place: according to quarian culture and superstition, missing a single one of them would be seen as evidence of a weak bond, and thence one that was doomed to crumble.

Both Shepard and Tali had already chosen their Confidants and Speakers: Garrus and Kasumi, then Kahlee and Raan respectively. They hadn't chosen protectors or supports yet, but that would be done in their own time when they felt ready to choose: after all, this would be a big commitment, and such a choice shouldn't be taken lightly. So far, they were content with who they had chosen so far, and neither of them found any real reason to be anxious at that point.

Gradually, Tali brought her attention back to the conversation before her. They had been seated here for over two hours. Kahlee had arrived a day ago, to which Raan had insisted she stay at her cubicle. Tali had arrived a little over three hours ago, leaving Shepard at home to his own devices while she was gone (he was exercising anyway, and knew he'd want to be left alone) and after getting reaquainted, the three had sat down and begun talking about the wedding. Conversation drifted in and out between the three, but eventually continued primarily between Raan and Kahlee. Being the chosen speakers for the ceremony, their role was arguably the most important, being the equivalent of the human marriage officiant and the parents. The Speaker was almost always the father of the respective groom/bride (or, in quarian culture, either father or mother), but given that both their fathers were dead, the ceremony was satisfied by having the next best thing. Raan was as close to original family as Tali was going to get, and Kahlee, being Anderson's girlfriend, was the go-to choice for Shepard.

Apparently, neither of them had even noticed Tali zoning out. So she was able to seemlessly reenter the conversation, he ears picking up what they were saying as she, to some degree, 'reintialized' her presence within the topic.

"-pletely agree, Miss Sanders."

"Please, call me Kahlee. We've been talking for two hours like a pair of women who've known each for  _years_. There's no need for formalities here. I've always hated them anyway."

"Very well. You may call me, Shala."

"Well, Shala, I'm glad you agree. I may not know the groom as well as I should, that was largely David and Hannah's pleasure, but I'm honored John feels comfortable enough choosing me to represent what they could not. I must say, I've been to both of my sisters' weddings as a bridesmaid, but I'd have to call this my  _first_ alien wedding. Its definitely a unique experience. So we're the...Speakers, you say?"

"The  _jahh bah'ps_ , correct. Our role is, quite frankly, the most important. As laid out in the  _Sekeaz i'tab vizsala'tet_ , the  _jahh bah'ps_  is the person chosen to speak on their behalf, to give them away to matrimony, to bridge the gap between clans, and negotiate the union between the two souls being bonded."

Kahlee, dressed in her Alliance fatigues, blonde hair tied in a ponytail, looked down at the tube of white wine she had brought with her, hands gingerly gripping the plastic covering as her sapphire eyes seemed to look through it to the ground, thinking about what she had just heard. Tali couldn't tell if the woman was conflicted or simply awed by the position of authority she had been bestowed: after all, this wasn't just any alien wedding. She was the chosen Speaker for  _Commander Shepard_. In her mind, this was a massive responsibility. Tali wouldn't have, couldn't, blame the woman if she chose to back out simply from being overwhelmed. She knew Shepard would be disappointed to begin with, but would ultimately understand as well. At times, Tali really wished Anderson was still alive. There were days where Shepard would wake up in the middle of the night whispering his name, literally recalling word for word his final conversation with the man, not knowing that Tali was awake and heard it all. When she heard him recall Anderson telling him what a great father he'd be, she almost shed a tear.

Shepard had loved that man to death. He wasn't just a mentor, he was the father he grew up with: the one that didn't replace his biological one, but was just as prominent in his life as any other father would be. Anderson had helped Shepard get to where he was today, and he had loved the man for it. Shepard could hide the sadness all he liked, but when it came out at night...there was no hiding it. She wouldn't have been angry if he chose to leave his side's Speaker's position empty out of respect for the man...but when he chose Kahlee, she knew it was an inspired choice. If Anderson couldn't be there personally...then the woman he loved could be there in his stead.

Despite her meandering thoughts however, Kahlee merely looked back up from the small stool she sat on, frowning at Shala, "I'm sorry...but what is the  _Sa key az etab viz..._ damn, I don't think I can pronounce that."

Raan just laughed, nodding sagely, "Do not concern yourself with this: I don't mean to sound patronizing or condescending, but khelish is a language that can be difficult to pronounce, even to our own species. Our modern language, New Khelish, is far easier for aliens to understand, as it is a modernized version of our lexicon that developed as a result of needing to be able to communicate with the greater galactic community when we joined it thousands of years ago. Many of the terms I'm using right now are from Old Khelish, which is much more difficult to master, even for other quarians. Luckily for me, my clan are something of linguistical experts. After all, Clan Raan helped to write the  _Sekeaz i'tab vizsala'tet_...the Scroll of the Ancestors, in your language.

"Scroll of the Ancestors? What's that?"

"I don't know of any human equivalent to use as an example of its importance to us..."

Tali was quick to jump in, utilizing her own vast knowledge of humanity (at least compared to other quarians) she accrued from her time on the  _Normandy_ , "The Scroll of the Ancestors for quarians is something like the Ten Commandments for humans. Its writings are the very foundations of quarian society. They are there to guide all quarians. Without it, we would not enjoy the uniformity and civility we do today. Quarian history prior to the Scroll is frought with bloodshed. It was a dark time for our people. It made the Dark Ages on your Earth pale by comparison. Clan wars started every week."

"That makes sense," Kahlee admitted, smiling fondly at Tali. The rapport between the two of them had been a cordial one, and she had shown Tali and Raan nothing but the utmost respect. It appeared that everybody who interacted with the Shepard family ultimately held no malice for aliens, especially quarians. Kahlee had treated them like any other equal, which just made her all the more perfect for this position. She turned back to Raan, nodding with acceptance, "Please do forgive my ignorance. I researched what I could on the way here, but learning another language and culture is so complex...there's a very good reason why its got dedicated courses at universities."

Raan took a sip of her own sterilized wine, hooking up the port to her mouthpiece and taking a sip, before then pulling it away once she was finished, laying the empty tube down on the small, steel surface infront of her, "I'll admit, I was surprised when Shepard chose to conform to quarian tradition for this. Given the simplicity of human marriage ceremonies, I thought it'd be easier," turning to Tali, the smile underneath her mask was obvious, "The man never ceases to amaze me with his insight and intuition. He continues to impress to me what a perfect choice he is for my niece. Any reservations I may have had are all but gone."

"He's certainly a remarkable man," Kahlee admitted, "David spoke very fondly of him. The things he's achieved...and you were there for the ride, Tali. The relationship you have is something special. I don't blame either of you for holding onto it."

Tali could only smile, "Thank you, that's very kind."

"Everybody wants to find happiness in this, unfortunately, cruel galaxy. Its not everyday that heroes get their due. I'm just glad you two are finally getting yours," Raan declared solemnly, her tone leaving nothing to question as she indirectly referenced the injustices the galaxy had wrought upon itself for millenia.

Tali nodded, her smile deteriorating somewhat, but not altogether. Yes, she was all too familiar with those injustices.  _Not to mention John. Keelah, I hope he's alright. He said all he was going to do was exercise...but he's been really moody these past few days. If it isn't his injuries, then its those damn Shepardists stressing him out...no matter how much he wants to tell himself he doesn't care, I know he does. He's just putting on a show for me. He doesn't want me to know that he knows something has to be done. That he's beginning to crack. He wants both of us to think this marriage will finally put an end to Commander Shepard. Put the hero to rest and bring about the dawn of a new part of his life. But he's wrong. Damn it, I can see it. He says he doesn't care...but why then is he obsessed with keeping up-to-date on the news? He stays up all night either having nightmares or reading news reports on his omni-tool. A part of him is nagging him to return to the fold...but something is holding him back._

Tali gulped audibly, trying her best to sigh as softly as possible so as not to be heard.  _What if I'm the anchor holding him down? Stopping him from acting? He says he's doing this all for me. For us, but to hear him say it, to hear him justify it...it sounds like its all for me. Perhaps that's what this marriage is? A way to keep him grounded? To satiate his sanity and keep him from accessing that personal armoury of ours upstairs?_

The assortment of questions only brought forth their own assortment of more questions. None of them had definitive answers. Shepard had even gotten Garrus to go out and deal with them...was it reluctant? Just how close was Shepard to saying 'I'll deal with it'? To say he didn't miss the old days would be a lie. A small part of her even missed them. The adventures they had, the mysteries they uncovered, the evil people they put down and the good they did. It was exhilirating. Electrifying. Exciting. Was all of it good? No. But was it all that bad? Could Tali really say, without any room for doubt, that part of her life was one she'd rather not visit?

No, she couldn't. And perhaps that's the same struggle Shepard was facing. Perhaps...the transition from Commander to John wasn't as easy as he thought it would be.

Luckily for her, neither Raan nor Kahlee seemed to notice her forlorn attitude, neither did their conversation stop, even as Tali zoned back into it.

"-security is a must," Raan stated, "This isn't just any wedding: this is humanity's champion and one of our most famous admirals. And with all this Shepardist nonsense going on in the galaxy, I think security must be a priority."

Kahlee bobbed her head, "Completely agree. The Alliance won't be able to help though, I'm afraid. We're relying heavily upon national assets to bolster our depleted forces, and even subcontracted PMCs, among them Chimera and Dreyfus-Vickers, are being hired to take over colonial defense duties and active deployment roles until our lost assets can be rebuilt. We've also got troubles with colonies self-arming themselves, and some are even trying to secede from the Alliance altogether due to anti-PMC sentiment. The recently rejected CAHMF-1 bill isn't doing us any favors either. And I don't think the quarian government would be particularly ecstatic at having PMC employees running amok on Rannoch, especially not with Erich Koenig's record for behaviour."

"We've heard of Koenig, yes," Raan admitted, with some venom in her voice, "The Migrant Fleet has had run-ins with Chimera during its early days. They're nothing to gloat about: our marines had no problems dealing with them, but we've lost a lot of valuable resources from trusting them in the past. No, I must agree that the Conclave will never let them set foot on Rannochian soil. However...that's not to say we can't show our own appreciation. The geth have been...rather generous in regards to this, actually."

"Interesting. What's their proposal?" Kahlee asked.

Raan just laughed a little, "Not so much a proposal, as an outline. The geth will provide an infantry battalion's worth of troops to aid with security at the wedding. It is their belief that Shepard and Tali, being the friends of their 'Progenitor' as they call him, and the people who helped create peace between our two peoples, deserves admiration and respect. They say this is non-negotiable. I'm inclined to agree. I'm also going to organize with Gerrel to provide at least a platoon of our marines to help with this as well. I hear some of Kal'Reegar's former subordinates are eager to help."

Tali's eyes widened at that. She couldn't believe that two contingents of military personnel were being pulled from active duties simply to watch over a wedding. It was one thing to be showing them special attention: but that was just ridiculous! A wasteful use of resources!

"Auntie Raan, I'm sure just a platoon of troops would be enough. We don't need 800 geth and dozens of quarian marines watching over this."

Raan just waved a dismissive hand, "Nonsense. This is the least the quarians and geth can do to show gratitude for the people who helped put us back on the homeworld, and end the war."

Tali couldn't help shrinking back at such blanket praise, cheeks flushing as she rubbed her arm lightly, "Well, Shepard did all the work...I just helped a little."

Kahlee was the one to chuckle this time, grinning from ear to ear, "Yes, and I'm sure he would have gone out of his way and done the same amount of work if a certain quarian woman wasn't involved..." she drawled sarcastically, "You're too modest, dear. You saved the galaxy. Time to accept the fact you're going to have the gratitude of entire generations to come and that people are going to want to show their appreciation in one way or another. Nothing wrong with a little hero worship here and there."

 _What, like the hero worship John is getting? I could do without the cults_ , she thought bitterly. She realized how harsh that sentiment was, knowing that not every fan would go to that extreme, and that she very much doubted such a movement would form on her behalf, even on Rannoch. While there was a sizable Shepardist cult following forming in El'Tivv, it was dwarfed by the cults on other Council homeworlds, and thus wasn't a real problem yet. Even still, both Shepard and herself felt uncomfortable with having them so close to home, let alone on the exact same planet. The secrecy shrouding their home was the only thing that kept the more rabid fans at bay, not to mention the prying, scrutinous eye of the media.

Her shoulders sagged at the thought of the Shepardists again. She had no doubt Shepard was home right now watching the news on their vidscreen, learning about the latest controversy surrounding the equally controversial organization. To say they were bordering on religious fanaticism was to understate the whole situation. All it did was make Shepard angrier. He had the power to act, but refused to act on it for her own sake. For his. He justified it by saying she was his priority, that their life was his new mission, that he didn't want to fight anymore or solve every single problem that cropped up. And she knew for a fact that he meant it. He truly wanted an exit strategy: a way to permanently set aside his old life and begin anew. But he also knew that these Shepardists would only grow in influence if he didn't act. He knew this, but was conflicted. Acting would mean breaking his promise to her. It would mean dusting off his rifle, slapping on his armor and charging once more unto the breach.

It wouldn't end with the Shepardists, either. Then another problem would crop up. Then another. Before one knew it, he'd have his Spectre status back, he'd be commanding the  _Normandy_ again or some other ship, and he'd be back in the business of maintaining galactic peace. His wife would be left alone on Rannoch or would join him in his battles, neither of them able to settle down. The spectre of death would hang over them as a constant companion, and the fear of one day never returning from a mission would be with them until the end.

This was the future both of them feared. Give one inch, they take a mile. Shepard felt he needed to draw a line. To make a stand. When he shredded his military titles and his spectre status, he had taken the first step. When they had both locked their weapons and armor in the armoury hidden inside their bedroom, locking it with a procedurally generated code-locked security system, they had gone a step further. When Shepard had started looking for a new job as a builder, and had asked Tali to marry him...he had gone all out. This was his new future, and the further he could get from the past, the more freedom he'd feel.

He was running. And the galaxy pursued him relentlessly, eager to bring him back into the fold. To have their hero share the spotlight forever, ever their symbol of the status quo and their assurance to the average citizen that galactic security would be maintained now and forevermore.

A part of Tali thought what they were doing was immensely selfish: the part of her that remained that told her such indulgences were the stuff of egotistical and self-ingratiating bosh'tets who only cared for themselves and their own happiness. She once believed in the quarian altruist. That all quarians were expected to sacrifice individual happiness for collective gain. Shepard had even told her of a political movement similar to what the quarians had that swept through post-WWII Europe, a movement that sparked a 'cold war' that would last nearly four decades. He told her how the movement failed, not just because of its militaristic approach to force feeding it to people, but because it was, fundamentally, unable to take into account the human condition: the individuality of a person. And that, for all intents and purposes, killed this movement. It taught Tali something: being selfish wasn't inherently bad. Everybody deserved to be selfish every once and a while. It was the quantity of selfishness: a good balance was needed. Selfishness was earned, not given as a right. So when Tali was given the chance...she took it. Both of them did. Because they had earned it.

The galaxy needed to understand that. And until the Shepardists got the message, Shepard would have to suffer for his choices. And she hated seeing him struggle with it.

"Tali, are you alright?" Raan asked, both her gaze and Kahlee's turned firmly towards the, unbeknownst to them, struggling quarian. Kahlee frowned, looking concerned, while Raan had turned in her seat to face her junior admiral, "You've been awfully quiet."

Tali momentarily considered lying and telling them everything was fine. But when it came down to it, she really needed to vent to someone. The war she was having with herself was eating her up: the conflict of trying to conform to her and her boyfriend's concept of a bountiful and peaceful life. She really wanted this to work...but for Shepard, he  _needed_ this to work. And there was the problem: a peaceful life required one to be free of any conflict, and with Shepard constantly being hounded by heroes and governments reminding him on a day-to-day basis of his other life, then it wasn't going to work. And Shepard was frustrated with that. The day he chose to leave Earth and go to Rannoch with Tali was an act of desperation: he was running. Building the house for her was helpful in distracting him from this fact, but once it was built...he had nothing except her to keep his attention. There was only so many times they could be together each day, and they both knew it. And with Tali the only one with a job at the moment (and that wouldn't last forever), it was only a matter of time before Shepard was unable to distract himself any longer. And she felt more and more helpless to stop it.

She needed to vent. And these were the best people to do it too.

"Its about John," she admitted, breathing out deeply, "I'm...worried. He's been very distant."

Kahlee just shrugged, "He's a man who has never been married before and is about to commit to something very important. He's about to enter a whole new world. He's just nervous, darling. Entirely normal."

She shook her head, "No, its more than that. You don't know him like I do...what he's struggling with. He may not look like it, he may seem the very image of stoic calm and assurance, but that's just the fascade he puts up to make others feel better. Its a remnant of what he used to do on the  _Normandy_ : put on a face of triumphant conviction in order to keep morale high. Its his...coping mechanism. He doesn't like to show people just how vulnerable he can be. He's...keelah, he's..."

Raan reached out a hand and placed it on her niece's lap, her tone entirely serious as she now saw that she was opening up to them. Kahlee saw this too, and shuffled in her seat to fully face her, giving the quarian her full attention as Raan spoke, "Its okay, Tali. You can tell us. What's wrong? Is he having second thoughts?"

"No!" she shouted, realizing she had been far too quick to react and fixed her tone, rubbing the back of her neck, "Sorry...no. No, John loves me. He's fully committed to this. This isn't about the marriage...or perhaps it is a part of it. I think...John is using the marriage to save himself mentally. To save us. I'm his anchor, if that doesn't sound too pretentious. Us getting married has been the game plan since defeating Oblivion near this very spot during the war...but I don't think he planned it like this. His proposal seemed...very ill-timed. I accepted it because I do love him, and I want to be his wife. But I don't think this is how he planned it. I think he's accelerated his schedule deliberately."

"Why?" Kahlee enquiried, confused, "Why would he do that?"

She knew this was a bold claim, but deep down in her heart, she knew it was true. She just did. She knew him fairly well, she knew how he thought, and when the pieces came together, and it was starting to make sense in her mind, "Because he's afraid. Of losing me, but also of losing himself. The Shepardists have had a larger affect on him than you may think. He's constantly thinking about them and what they may do next. He feels powerless to stop them because he knows any actions he takes will only fuel them to continue. This wedding is genuine, but also a distraction. He wants to distract himself and me from the greater problem, while also ensuring our life together isn't endangered. He's...struggling to find a way to disconnect permanently from his old life. He's made it clear he doesn't want to be Commander Shepard anymore, nor can he because of his injuries. He's been a marine his entire life: that's not something you just abandon. This life he wants with me...its not just an experiment. Its a commitment for him."

"I understand," Raan acknowledged, nodding, "You think these Shepardists are getting to him?"

She shrugged, sighing with irritation, "Yes...and no. I just wish they'd go away! I can understand hero worship, but they tried to murder Aria T'Loak and a salarian dalatrass! I can see it eating up John from the inside out...and I hate it! There's not a thing I can do about it...which is why I haven't brought this up with him. Then there's his injuries...they're only making it worse. Its not a well known fact, but his injuries...they're bad. He'll have a permanent limp for the rest of his life...which is the real reason he left the military, and gave up his spectre status. There are...a litany of other problems too, but I promised John not to discuss them unless he feels comfortable with it. Keelah, I shouldn't even be telling you this. I just...don't know who else to talk to! I feel helpless! Weak! All I can do is sit back and watch. I've tried to comfort him, tell him the problem will just go away...but it hasn't! And I know it won't! Damn it, I even told him that he couldn't just escape being a hero...like that was going to help! So stupid!"

_Of course he knows he can't run from it. That's what he's agonizing over. He's no longer in his physical prime and never will be again, he's had to give up the one thing he's good at, and to make it worse, he has fans hounding him every step of the way, committing atrocities in his name. I can't even imagine the battle he's fighting with himself...he could be punching walls right now and I'm all the way over here, unable to help or stop him..._

"Its alright, Tali," Kahlee reached forward and grasped her shoulder, causing her to look up at her, "We understand. And...I thank you for trusting me enough to discuss this. I offer any help, because your situation is a unique one."

Raan nodded her agreement, "I can't pretend to know the answers to your problem, Tali. This is something both you and John need to work out. He needs you, and you need him. That's what bonding is: its an interpersonal connection between two people who love each other unconditionally. He obviously loves you dearly if he's willing to go through with this, and I can tell you feel the same. Let that be your strength. Yes, you are his anchor: take pride in that, find strength in it, and use it to guide him towards a brighter path. You're his guide. Guide him. Protect him. Show him love when he needs it, and he will show you love when you need it. That's the beauty of the bond. That's why we have it. That's why the ancestors, blessed be, bestowed upon us this beautiful arrangement. I know that sounds childish and sentimental, but in my experience, its true of all quarians. The bond is a connection that transcends verbal understanding. John may not feel it, but if you're drawn to him, than the connection is there. The imprint. The same imprint that exists in all quarians, and is only triggered when they've met their soulmate. You've found yours, and he's found his...use that."

As Raan completed her speech, Tali could feel tears dripping down her cool, grey cheeks...and she offered a trembling smile. Her aunt's words had hit her deeply, and she understood the truth behind them. Her ancestors truly had laid out the groundwork for a magnificient union. She knew of the imprint, the hidden mental connection between two partners that could be felt, but never scientifically proven. The same imprint that caused two people to come together, fall in love and bond permanently. The imprint itself was like a bond of its own: one that created an inseperable bond between two mates for the rest of their lives.

_Perhaps that's what I was feeling when I first met John. The imprint was sowing itself, even back then. I don't know how John was unable to feel it, or even experience it...keelah, I don't know if he can. But whatever the case, we're both feeling the imprint...we've felt it for years, and we just didn't know it. It drew us together. Perhaps that's what John meant back in the hospital when he said he felt irrationally angry when he was anxious and she wasn't nearby...only for the feeling to be replaced with elation whenever she entered the room. Was that the imprint at work?_

Despite how she felt, she knew Raan was right. Even if the marriage was initiated for different reasons, the underlying reason was there: they loved each other. John loved her deeply, and had proven that many times again. The bullets he had taken for her on the battlefield could be written down as a commander looking out for his troops, but dropping everything he was doing to save her on Haestrom, not to mention apparently shrugging off bullets from dozen of geth soldiers, tossing the military rulebook for tactics out the window in favor of rushing geth troops about to imminently break into the place she was hiding in, and single-handedly bringing down a colossus? Who did that for a mere subordinate? The speech he gave at her trial. The hug he gave her when she lost her father. Lying to the admirals to keep his promise to her. Going out of his way to end an entire war just so he could give her the homeworld she always wanted, including a house. Patiently waiting for her when she was researching a way to be with him without dying. Waiting nearly three months for her during the Reaper War, despite the many times he would have needed to vent. Going out of his way to call an evac just to make sure she escaped okay...the list went on. No, he truly loved her...adored her. And she felt the same for him. She wasn't afforded nearly as many chances to show her own love for him, her own devotion...but this was a start.

She would be patient with him. She would be there for him when she was needed, and fight some of the battles he couldn't. He had looked after her, and now it was her turn. Auntie Raan was right: the beauty of the bond was the bond itself. That unity between two people...the co-dependence on one another. Nothing could break that bond, and nothing would seperate them.

Not even their own rabid fans.

Tali nodded, sniffing, "Thank you, Auntie Raan...Miss Sanders. Thank you...for hearing me out. I think I understand what I have to do now."

Kahlee just smiled, her gentle blue eyes complimenting the gesture in a display that was not only beautiful, but instantly comforting, "Please Tali, just call me Kahlee...we're practically family now."

"Tali, we're in this together," Raan stated, patting her leg, "But ultimately, this is between you and John. Hold onto each other and never let go. These Shepardists will eventually go away, but for now, you'll need to remain strong. And the best way to start with that is to get you two married. So how about we go over the plans?"

Tali sniffled once more, wishing she could wipe her eyes, cheeks and nose, but remained mindful of her helmet. One day, she would be free of this suit, and she could wipe away tears at her own volition. For now, she ignored the salty taste of the droplets that managed to touch her lips, and offered a solitary, but strong-willed, nod, "Yes, Auntie Raan. That would be a good idea."

The next few hours were spent going over the plans in detail, while Tali let her thoughts escape back to Shepard. She knew he was hurting, she knew he was struggling to maintain an aura of wholeness and calm...and she knew it would crumble if she didn't help him. So she would. And whatever decision he made, she would stick by it...just as he had stood by her decisions in the past. She would be his anchor, and that duty was one she was glad to take up.

 _Its okay, John_ , she affirmed in her own mind,  _our future is ours. Noone can take that from us. You don't have to shoulder this burden on your own. I'll be there to help you. As your soulmate. As your wife. I'd like to see those bosh'tets try and stop us._

Tali smiled.  _Yes, I'm getting married. And only now do I realize just how important that is._

* * *

 _CSS Normandy SR-2, Docked over Illium - January 16, 2188 - Present day_.

Another hour, still no lead. Garrus was steadily losing his patience.

It had been little over a day since the raid on the now-former Shepardist headquarters on Illium...since the Good Samaritan and his cultists slipped the net and escaped from the clutches of justice. He had been beyond livid, inwardly thanking the spirits for his military training and the restraint it honed in him, or otherwise he might have lashed out at the nearest person by this point. He hadn't felt this frustrated since Leng escaped with the VI on Thessia during the war, and he had mostly been channeling the same rage and self-loathing that Shepard had been at the time. Rage at the fact he was defeated, and self-loathing because he believed he could have done more to ensure victory. That defeat was his own damn fault.

And it partly was.

They had remained for a couple of hours after the raid, waiting for the NAPD to come in and seal off the place. Garrus had assured them they wouldn't find anything, as his own team had already scoured the place for anything incriminating, but they were quite insistent that their superiors wanted them to double check the place for reasons regarding public confidence and positive publicity: the usual political bullshit that Garrus had encountered all the time during his days in C-Sec. Investigations mired in bureaucracy, likely at the behest of the Illium planetary government. In a way, he couldn't really blame them: Illium had been a former asari republic, choking under the supremacy of Thessia, the asari motherland. When they seperated from the Thessian Republics during the Terminus Revolution, the Treaty of Illium keeping them as a member of the Republics in the name only, allowing it full autonomy, the asari of the planet had rejoiced: before the Reaper War, they were by far the most prosperous and civilized world to exist in the Terminus Systems. But now it was just another planet beaten to a pulp by the Reaper war machine, its once marvelous and splendid cities of glass spires and domed arcologies reduced to rubble and dust, entire swaths of cityscape obliterated and littered with the dead, the permanent mark of war, the very thing Illium had sought to avoid bringing to its territory.

And now, thanks to that very war, Illium was once again forced to consort with the Citadel Council once again: bad enough they were allowing Council operations on their turf, but when spectres started to get involved...the NAPD were all too willing to make sure their reluctance and chagrin was made known. They were not willing to allow extremists free reign in their city, and they certainly weren't going to allow the Council a full slice of the pie. The NAPD needed to show the public they were still an effective police force, and to do that, they needed to act like it. Their refusal to take Garrus on his word and work with the spectres was simply too predictable an outcome. It didn't help that, with Illium in such dire straits economically and politically, the manifest phantom of reunification with the motherland hung over them gravely. Illium was in a bad enough state as it was: they didn't need the censure and stigma of Thessia's recent fall from grace being stuck to them as well.

So...it made sense the NAPD would be a little bitter towards spectres.

But getting shut out of the investigation was one thing: knowing that he personally had allowed the Good Samaritan and his cronies to escape under his watch, to know that his actions, directly or indirectly, had allowed the cultists to abscond from his clutches...it was too much to handle. He was supposed to stop them. He had been personally charged to bring them in...and he failed. And his negligence had played a big part of it.

He leaned back in his chair, sighing as he felt one of his mandibles twitch, as they always did when he was irritated or angry. He felt one of his talons tightening around the edge of his desk, but once he heard the scraping of the razor-sharp claws digging gouges into the monochrome surface, he withdrew, tightening and untightening the appendage to relax it. He wanted very badly to lash out, to beat the absolute shit out of something, but his honed turian discipline stopped him from acting on this impulse. He calmed himself, taking deep breaths, cursing his own stupidity in the process. His absolute arrogance.

He had been sure that the Shepardists were trapped: that he had them cornered. He had believed that by bringing the  _Normandy_ squad as a show of force, he'd perform the dual duty of demonstrating that not only did Shepard not stand with them as they believed, but they'd be able to overpower them if push came to shove easily: after all, they've defeated far worse than a few overzealous fans. But no...he had been too arrogant. Far too confident. He had left his hubris get the better of him, and as a result, he underestimated his opponent. The Samaritan was smarter than he initially believed, and had taken advantage of Garrus' slip-up.

_They hijacked a civilian ship...its the only explanation. I even acted on that hunch and had Liara check the city for reports on missing civilian vessels...sure enough, the MSV Moon Leaper was reported stolen from drydock, with a pending NAPD and Illium navy search and sweep. They won't find anything, of course. Liara tried her best to find records on the extranet of possible sightings of a vessel fitting that ship's description, but she couldn't find one. Even if she did, its a bloody Kowloon-class modular conveyor...every damn merchant navy owns fleets of those ships. Finding it on visual alone is going to be impossible, especially if they don't intend to be found. Damn it all!_

The problems just piled on as well: essentially every Faith-registered vessel had also disappeared into the ether. None had hung around long enough for Garrus to have them impounded or captured, and the Illium authorities were unable to snag any of their own. The Samaritan had cleared most of the Faith's bank accounts before their assets could be frozen, escaping with at least seventeen million credits worth. By the end of it all, the Samaritan was left holding the stick, while Garrus and the  _Normandy_ squad had no means of pushing forward.

No leads. No arrests. No captured assets. Empty-handed.

With the NAPD scouring the Shepardist's former hideout, and no new leads to act upon, the  _Normandy_ was essentially stuck on Illium, unable to proceed. He had granted the squad and the crew some R'n'R until the situation was sorted out, while Garrus remained on the ship to await any situation updates. He had since written his mission report to the Council, who were understandably none too happy about his failure to apprehend the Samaritan as assigned. Ashley and Churchill had backed him up in their own reports, emphasizing that the rule book was followed to the letter, and that the Samaritan's escape plan was one they couldn't have predicted. With the gift of retrospective analysis however, Garrus couldn't disagree more.

_We should have taken into account every possibility, including a vessel being hijacked: we should have had the Illium military impose a naval checkpoint around the planet. The only reason I didn't order this was because I got arrogant and assumed the Samaritan wouldn't be smart enough to try it. He had killed a spectre in cold blood, one I respected immensely, and I was looking for revenge: I let that blind me. It was stupid and it shouldn't have happened at all._

The three spectres on the ship were keeping themselves busy. Ashley was coordinating with Liara to scrounge up whatever possibile leads they could, no matter how small. Churchill was secretly monitoring the NAPD's communications, looking for any potential mention of something they might have missed in their own search that could help in tracking down the Samaritan. Garrus just brooded in his personal quarters, trying to navigate the self-deprecating quagmire that was his individual character critique.

Deciding to stand up and stretch his legs, he sighed as each and every single piece of cartilage could be heard cracking with release, relieving his tensed up muscles one by one until they had all sagged with contentment. He began to pace across the room, ignoring the persistent, cerulean glow of the fish tank that bombarded his face as he moved.

These very quarters that he called his own had once belonged to the former Commander Shepard. The man himself had once commented on just how overly luxurious and exorbitant the cabin was, comparing it often to his old quarters on the SR-1, and how this room alone would have an Alliance captain in a fit at the sheer lack of regulations being followed: he had even gone as far as to call it a penthouse in space. Despite this, Garrus couldn't exactly argue with the space awarded to the man, and about two months into the Collector campaign, Shepard had ceased all mention of it, especially once he and Tali got all cozy and the quarian engineer started visiting this deck more often.

The cabin itself was situated on a deck of its own, nested right on the uppermost deck, above the CIC. This, and the thick bulkheads, made the room the most private part of the entire frigate, as well as the most soundproofed. There two levels to it: the upper level, which had an L-shaped desk in the right corner, complete with a glass display case towering over it, and a private toilet in the back, and then there was the second level, which held the king size double bed at the back, a small coffee table situated in front of an L-shaped couch, and a small closet to the left. A fish tank stretched across both levels along the left side of the wall, and the metallic silver sheen of the bulkheads could be found as a staple theme of the entire room. Shepard had been surprised when the room was scarcely touched after the Alliance retrofit, although he largely chalked it down to them running out of time, or simply not knowing what to do with it given it was its own deck.

After the war ended, and Shepard had sufficiently recovered, he had visited with Tali, and the two of them had gone about emptying the room of their possessions, ready to take to Rannoch. When the time came for them to leave, Shepard had saluted Garrus, telling him that the cabin was all his now, and that he had earned it. Despite his better judgment, Garrus had accepted the accomodation...probably because he could never turn down his best friend. And, if he were to look back on it, it really wasn't all that bad...sure, the bed was uncomfortable (clearly designed with humans in mind), but that was really the only complaint he had with it. As Shepard said, 'it grows on you.'

With a sigh, he reached the tempered glass of the fish tank and tapped it with a single finger, watching as the invisible reverbration that carried through the water startled the alien fish inside and sent them scattering to all corners of the tank they called their home. He leaned his head against it, eyes zoning out as they got lost in the cobalt liquid depths of the emulated ocean, once again lost in thought as they took over his senses.

_Shouldn't have let any of this happen. And what am I going to tell Shepard? He entrusted me to get this settled. To end the threat these Shepardists posed. Instead, I may have just prolonged it. Now that they know we're after them, they'll be far more cautious, and less likely to poke their head out. Wherever they choose to hide won't be a major population center, and it won't be somewhere that's easily found or near any civilian solar traffic lanes. This raid was our chance to catch him, and this fiasco will probably make them far wiser to being in the open. And now I have to tell Shepard that. Spirits._

A part of him was frustrated at Shepard's lack of action, but for the most part, it was squashed. Garrus understood Shepard's situation...what he was trying to do. He knew that any action on that man's part could result in the dismantling of his dream, of the very goal he had set out to achieve. He may not have agreed with its results, but he understood it, and he would help Shepard in maintaining it if he could. Shepard may not have intended for him to take down the Good Samaritan himself, but the underlying motive for all of this was to simply eliminate the root problem itself: and to do that, you had to cut off the head. If Shepard couldn't, wouldn't, take down the Shepardists himself, then the  _Normandy_ would be there to do it for him.

Nonetheless, there was still that small part of him that wished Shepard would just do it himself. Yet again, that small part probably stemmed from the larger part that yearned for a return to the old days. As much as Garrus liked command and fell naturely into it, being under Shepard's command had felt like a privilege he would never experience again. Ultimately, he just wanted to fight by Shepard and Tali's side again: to have the dextro squad back together and fighting the bad guys, so to speak. It was a childish aspiration, honestly, and he damn well knew it, but it didn't stop him from hoping. Perhaps that's where his frustration with Shepard stemmed from.

Yet again, it could be because his inaction was what was leading to the escalation of the Shepardist Crisis. The Samaritan would have been dealt with already if Shepard had simply decided to handle the situation straight away, and if this had been before the Reaper War, he probably would have. But something about Shepard had changed after the war ended, and while Garrus liked to think he knew exactly what it was, he couldn't. Only Tali knew that, and she wasn't going to yield that information anytime soon. Garrus just hoped that the man he once knew, his former commander, hadn't been the one to die on the Citadel during the final battle over London, and that the man who emerged was merely a husk of what once was.

Pushing himself up and off the fish tank, he steadily turned towards the terminal on his desk. He knew he would have to contact Shepard sooner or later to give him a progress update, and he knew he wasn't going to like what he had to say. But Shepard was a glutton for intel and, like it or not, he was being kept in-the-know regarding Garrus' operations against the Shepardists, and thus would want to know about a development like this. He would have to tell him. To let loose the bad news.

_And he'll want to hear it from the horse's mouth. At least, that's how I think the human saying goes. Stupid human metaphors. Some of them just don't make any sense!_

He couldn't imagine what was going through his friend's mind right now. With everything that had transpired in the past two months, having sycophants and zealots running around panegyrizing you and trying to kill people in your name had to be weighing down hard on him. When Shepard had asked him to deal with the cultist cell on Omega, there had been a look in his eyes: the same kind of look he'd seen when he had delivered his ultimatum to the crew and squad following the events in the Bahak incident that he was going to turn himself into the Alliance authorities, and that his crew were to continue the fight without him. It was the look of somebody who felt defeated...a man who wanted to continue fighting and leading from the front, but no longer could. This same man struggled with passing the torch, no matter how much he liked to deny it. He was vulnerable, and hated it. Spirits knew Garrus had been in the same boat far too many times: it was why he was able to identify that feeling so quickly.

So was it really right for Garrus to dump this all on Shepard's doorstep? Was it truly his responsibility to keep him in the loop, constantly hounding him with reminders that the galaxy still wasn't perfect? One might ask why Garrus would be worried about updating his friend regarding a mission he partially recruited him to take on, but when you take into account this same man, just over a year ago, had nearly died leading a galactic scale war against hyper advanced sentient starships and was so battered he couldn't even serve in the military anymore...was it really so unreasonable for him to be taking into account Shepard's mental state?

Garrus wouldn't go as far as saying that Shepard was a broken man: far from it. He still carried himself with an iota of the same pride and authority he once did, and he knew having Tali and his friends by his side was definitely helping him stay afloat. But the war had taken its fair share of bites out of him, and the mark of the Reapers weighed heavily on him. It had been the hardest fight of their lives, every battle a gnashing of teeth and every hard-won victory a desperate grasp at whatever shred of hope they could obtain. The Reaper War was the most devastating and bloody conflict in galactic history. It saw billions upon billions dead. Entire fleets and militaries battered and exhausted. Cities glassed and planets rendered uninhabitable. It saw geopolitical boundaries completely redefined, allegiances changed and governments come and go. For the  _Normandy_ , it was a culmination of three years of fighting and desperate preparation. It was both a disaster and a triumph. They lost friends and family, and were forced to endure others losing theirs. Shepard had confided in him throughout the entire war: whenever Tali wasn't present or was busy, Shepard would look to him to vent.

Garrus knew about the constant news reports and emails Shepard received: he was delivered thousands a day, and for whatever reason, he mercilessly punished himself by reading them. Messages from families trapped on Reaper-occupied worlds, begging for him to save them. Parents blaming him for their sons and daughters dying in defense of Earth. The one that hit him the hardest was the tale of a young boy and his family, trapped on Thessia, waiting for a rescue that would never come. Looking up to the sky every morning, expecting one day to find the grand victory fleet high above, sycthing through Reaper lines and saving the day. When Shepard enquired as to their fate after the war...well, nobody ever returns from the concentration camps entirely whole.

And for whatever reason, Shepard took it all as his responsibility. He had decided, from the day he left Earth, that the entire war was his to lead, and that every death, every defeat, was on him. As one would expect, this was a ludicrously tall order...one that was not only insurmountable, but impossible to maintain. Garrus knew of few instances where Shepard's disguise was shattered for a moment, but there was no way he couldn't have: as invulnerable and incorruptible as Shepard seemed to be, he was just another organic with emotions and feelings and idiosyncrasies. The only time Garrus remembered seeing him somewhat defeated was after Thessia fell...after they were beaten to the punch by Cerberus and their lap dog Kai Leng.

The point is...Shepard didn't come out of that war unscatched. They all had to accept that many of them would never be the same, permanently altered, mentally and physically, by a conflict that would define the galaxy they lived in for the next millenia. Shepard had left that hospital a different person...he was no longer the man who would go out of his way to pick up a gun and right the wrongs of a galaxy. The same person who stopped to help anyone who so much as looked sad on the street.

No, this man was jaded. Tired. Irritated. Beaten. He'd had his fair portion of war, and he was no longer hungry. He had retired, built a house and was getting married. And now, with the Samaritan's rise to prominence, this idyllic lifestyle was threatening to come undone. Perhaps Garrus felt the need to reassure his friend that all was fine: that he needn't get involved. Or perhaps he was helping his former commander and best friend entertain the delusion that heroes can simply retire without consequence.

_Heroes don't get to just...disappear. They resonate with the people they've affected. I don't know why Shepard can't see that. He's always hated that epithet, but that doesn't stop it being true. I learnt this lesson on Omega...people started calling me the 'Archangel', and it wasn't until a month later that I learnt people will attach pseudonyms and titles of heroism to those they see as paragons of the virtues they hold dear. Heroes aren't necessarily what you make yourself, but rather what people make of you. As Primarch Gregarius once put it, 'those who seek heroism are fools...those who stutter into such prestige are heroes by right.'_

Was he saying the Shepardists were right in how far they were taking this heroism streak? Not in the slightest. The road to hell was paved with good intentions, but whether the Shepardist intentions were good remained to be seen...thus far though, their methods left a lot to be desired. But did that diminish the public opinion of everybody else? Not at all. Like it or not, Shepard was a hero to these people, and that couldn't be avoided. His incessant stubbornness to accept this was, quite frankly, infuriating, even if understandable.

_No...he needs to know. He even asked me to keep him updated. A part of him wants that knowledge...perhaps the Shepard who spent hours punishing himself by reading emails from dead families and distressing news reports has made a resurgence. That might even be why he wants to know. A small part of him is still punishing him for some crime he believes he's committed and needs to atone for. Stubborn fool._

Pulling the chair back out, he plopped himself back down and quickly pulled himself back towards the desk, tapping at his terminal to bring it up. It didn't take him long to find the contact ID for the Shepard residence on Rannoch, so he decided it best to get this over with and tapped it, watching as the terminal screen turned black, a single white dot moving in a circle in the bottom left to indicate it was connecting. Connection times were slow due to the galaxy-wide extranet outages, but it usually didn't take him that long to reach Rannoch, so he'd just have to hope today was one of the good days.

It appeared fate was looking kindly on Garrus Vakarian...or perhaps the extranet was. Within a minute and a half of trying to establish a connection, the screen turned from its black screen to a dull blue, waiting patiently for the other end to accept the call. Now Garrus just had to hope the man was home at the moment. Lo and behold, he was catching luck again, and a few moments later, Shepard's face appeared on the other end of the screen, the man having his arms braced against the top of his desk, face peering at the screen. Once the face of his friend appeared infront of him, Shepard's expression brightened, a small smile greeting the turian. He looked tired, red rings hanging like bags under the man's eyes, and his hair was dishevelled and largely unclean, almost like he hadn't showered.

"Hey there, Garrus."

Despite the seriousness of the turian's house call, he had to choke back a laugh at the human's unkempt state. Chuckling lightly to himself, he facetiously retorted, "Well, you've seen better days, Shepard."

"Garrus...you know its like...4 in the morning, right?"

There was silence over the line for a moment. Neither of the men said anything, simply staring at each other over the line. Shepard raised an eyebrow, clearly awaiting Garrus' response to his query, probably already knowing the answer itself. Garrus just awkwardly opened and closed his mouth, unable to come up with any legitimate excuse for how he had managed to forget this detail...again.

_Really got to get those time zones straight. 4 in the morning? Spirits, no wonder he looks so tired...he's probably just woken up!_

Suddenly, Garrus was overcome with a sense of guilt. Now was hardly the time to deliver thunderbolt news like this, given his state, "Look, I didn't realize what the time was. The update can w-"

Shepard wasn't giving him the chance to back out, raising a hand to stall him from continuing any further with his current line of reasoning, "Garrus, its fine. Besides, I've been up for over an hour and a half now...just had coffee and breakfast. I was about to hit the shower when you called. So what do you have to tell me? Just try and keep it quiet...Tali's still asleep, and I don't want to wake her."

_He's up that early? I wonder why he's up-and-about during twilight hours?_

_Could be just a case of old habits being hard to break. He did serve in the military: waking up early was the norm. He might just find it hard to sleep past a certain time. Not that its any of my business._

"Are you sure this is a good time?" Garrus asked again, double checking to ensure Shepard's mood was in the right mindset to handle what he was about to be told, "Because I can just come back later."

Shepard waved his hand dismissively, scratching the stubble lining his jaw, "Really Garrus...its fine. I'm a little bit tired, but its nothing a shower won't wash away afterwards. Now come on...what do you have to tell me? I'm assuming this isn't just a social call? As much as I'd appreciate one, I'm sure you're far too busy for that at the moment."

He nodded numbly, clicking his mandibles as he thought of a way to respond appropriately to this, "As much as I'd like to just call up to chat Shepard...you're right. I'm not here to chat...I figured you'd need to hear this from me before you stumble upon it while watching the news. You deserve to hear it from me first."

Shepard froze momentarily at that, eying Garrus suspiciously. After a moment, he stirred, swaying side to side as he moved into a more comfortable position, hands raised to hold his head upright, "What's happened?"

 _Well, the game is up._ There was no point in trying to sugarcoat anything when it came to Shepard. He could see through most bullshit from a mile away, and once he picked up the scent, he wouldn't stop until he got the truth: that was just the sort of man he was. Garrus knew there was no point in trying to dance around the issue, so he figured getting straight to the point was the best way to do this. Its how he had handled the other updates he gave to Shepard on the situation, so naturally it'd be more effective to try that here as well.

"I haven't told you this yet because I was under orders to keep this quiet until the operation was complete and we had confirmation of the target having been acquired or neutralized," he stiffly began, delivering the information as bluntly as he mentally promised, "The Council sent me on a raid to capture and arrest the Good Samaritan. However, when we got to their headquarters on Illium, the Samaritan and his cultists were gone. Worse yet...they've escaped offworld and now we don't know where they are. Took most of their monies before we could freeze them, and all their ships before we could seize them."

Garrus took a moment to observe the reaction on Shepard's face. To his credit, he seemed to process this information slowly and carefully, although that had always been one of Shepard's strong suits. Rarely would anyone get to see Shepard snap and make quick decisions, and those only happened either under stressful, time-sensitive conditions...or when he was exceptionally angry. The rest of the time, Shepard was a calculating figure, always weighing responsive options in his head, and never acting rashly.

Finally, after an audible gulp could be heard over the channel, Shepard responded, his tone sombre and devoid of any the humor he had previously entertained at the start of the call, "Why has the Council suddenly sent you to capture the Samaritan? Is this in regards to the attempt on Linron? Does the Council think the Samaritan was responsible for ordering that hit?"

Garrus suspired strongly, gripping the edge of the desk, "Yes...and no. Shepard...I didn't tell you this because the Council didn't want it to be public knowledge just yet. They're in the shit enough as it is, and they don't really need public reprisals coming back to bite them in the ass. The Samaritan...they believed he order the hit on Linron, yes. But...the Council sent in a spectre to apprehend him already, Shepard. And the Samaritan killed him."

More silence, this time so deafening that Garrus wished he could have broken it by continuing. Instead, he allowed Shepard to sit on that information, thinking about it. The intense look of concentration showed he was indeed trying to manage all this new knowledge in his head. His eyes widened momentarily as the implications hit him full force, and he looked up to the turian with a glassy, half-lidded gaze...almost as if the reality of what was just revealed to him was beyond the ability to accept, "The...Samaritan...killed a spectre? You're sure? How do you know this?"

He nodded solemnly, "His body was found in an alleyway by a rubbish collector...NAPD performed an autopsy and found the letter 'C' carved into his chest. It means.." he trailed off, not sure he wanted to reveal the exact nature of what this meant to Shepard, the implications simply too horrifying to account for.

"Garrus..." Shepard prompted, a slight iota of impatience heard in his voice as he tried to get the turian to come clean, "...what does 'C' mean?"

He inwardly growled, rubbing the side of his face, "Crusader. It stands for Crusader. You."

"Fuck," Shepard cursed under his breath, the sound a soft whisper, but just loud enough for his terminal's internal microphones to pick up. He lowered his head, hands running through his already skewed and bedraggled hair, a loud, winding exhale heard escaping his nostrils. He could be heard cursing again, repeating it four times like a monistic chant. Finally, he rose his head again, licking his lips as he braced his head ontop of his hands again. After a moment of self-collection, he looked up again, his intonation mournful and hardened, "...who was the spectre?"

"Jondam Bau."

"Bau..." he susurrated, looking off aimlessly at a nearby wall. His eyes looked unfocused, almost like he was deep in thought...likely trying to remember his own encounter with Bau during the war, where he was helping the salarian spectre take down and eliminate a hanar double agent working for the Reapers. Finally, he turned back to Garrus, shaking his head, motioning for him to continue, "So he escaped...how?"

Garrus looked up at that, detecting a momentary inflection of accusation in the tone Shepard used, but dismissing it as mutual irritation on the human's part. None of them liked being beaten, and Garrus liked being beaten by insane cultists even less. It left a bad taste in his mouth, "He knew we were coming...we had tried our best to account for this. We worked with the Illium authorities to bar ships registered under the Faith from docking, and those that were had to be impounded immediately: we thought by doing this we'd be able to stop him from escaping offworld. But it turns out he simply hijacked a civilian cargo vessel instead...and now we have no idea where he is," he sighed, a light groan heard as the antistatic metal of the desk protested from Garrus gripping it too hard, "Its my fault. I should have had them set up a damn planetary blockade, not conduct a simple sequester."

The impassive, disoriented countenance on Shepard's face did not transmute, remaining fixed in an implacable gaze of ambiguity. Garrus couldn't gauge what he was thinking at all, and it infuriated him. Was the man angry? Disappointed? Sad? When Shepard simply switched off his emotions like this, donning the foolproof poker face, it became much harder to get through to him. He had noticed this change in demeanour the moment he mentioned the Shepardists' self-declared title for Shepard being carved into Bau's corpse. Such a barbaric act seemed like something straight out of the human Middle Ages. The man looked to have been sickened by the notion, but was unwilling to blatantly demonstrate it with words.

"So what else is the Council doing about this?" Shepard's voice piped up again, finding it harder and harder with each revelation dealt upon him to find an appropriate method from which to continue the morbid discussion.

 _What else can they do?_ "Not much, I'm afraid. With Bau dead, they're not willing to risk more spectre hits. Ashley and I are their go-to, and Churchill is volunteering. We've got the  _Normandy_ and the Shadow Broker on our side, Shepard. We'll find them eventually...it'll just take time."

A bitter, humorless laugh was all he got in response from Shepard, the sound quiet and reserved in an effort to keep his slumbering fiance from waking up. A dull scratching sound could be heard as his hand ran along the edge of his jaw and chin, bristles of stubble echoing their resentment as Shepard scratched them, "You and I both know time is not a luxury, Garrus. These people are expanding, and the Samaritan is at the head of all of this. All this lynching and violence started when the Samaritan took over. He's at the heart. Every minute he remains free is one more opportunity he gets to hurt innocent people and spread his perverted and manipulative dogma. He has to be stopped, and sooner rather than later."

Whether it be a mixture of frustration and half agreement, Garrus found himself unable to contain his more snappy, sardonic side, "You're not telling me anything new, Shepard. I'm fully aware he's a bloody menace, and we're doing our damn best to stop him."

"I know you are, damn it," he hissed, licking his lips anxiously, "I just wish...this shit is beyond ridiculous. We're supposed to be rising beyond this...instead, we're falling back into the same old motions. Some idiot feeling the need to spill blood in the name of others. I just hate having my name attached to it. Feels like I'm fucking enabling these assholes. Giving them a justification for their crap," he stopped talking for a moment, realization dawning in his eyes as he looked longfully at the table infront of him, "Perhaps, if I had dealt with this situation from the start..."

There it was. The longing. The want. The temptation. It was roaring, loud and clear, clawing to get free and it could be seen transparently in his eyes. Garrus knew there was a part of Shepard that wanted to act...to become the Commander again, and fix the big issues plaguing the galaxy.

And in all honesty...Garrus couldn't really see this ending any other way.

_Ne needs to come out of his shell. The only way we're stopping the Samaritan is if Shepard slaps on that armor one last time. I don't know a better way to shut up religious bedlamites than with their own god._

Regarding his friend with sincere regret, he could only shake his head as he watched the same battle play out in Shepard's mind once again: temptation versus restraint. A life of peace versus the life of the Commander, "I hate to be the devil's advocate here, Shepard...but maybe that's just what the galaxy needs right now. For Shepard to come back."

Suddenly, the internal war that had danced in Shepard's eyes ceased its thunderous fencing. The new Shepard arose again, blocking out the drums of war that vociferated in his mind. Garrus cringed to see it, because he knew he had lost the momentum before he'd even gained it. He had believed he was getting through to the man, but any pretense of this happening was swiftly slapped back down as Shepard turned to the turian, uttering the word he hoped not to hear regarding this topic, "No."

Garrus, against his better judgment, thought it possible to sway him, and proceeded regardless of Shepard's disposition, "Shepard, hear me out. The only way we are going to defeat the Samaritan and his cult is if you denounc-"

"No," he stated again, firmly and without argument. An echo of the old commander was rising to the forefront: his immovable demeanour. The state of mind that appeared whenever Shepard had made a decision, and nothing would move or dissuade him from it. He was like a fortress at that point: a stronghold of galvanized steel and reinforced concrete that refused to budge until it was utterly obliterated, "I've given up too much for this galaxy already. Cults like this were being stopped long before I was born...and they will continue to be stopped after I'm dead. Its not my damn responsibility to handle every problem that crops up. My involvement would only open up a can of worms that we wouldn't be able to seal up again. Hell, my involvement could be the very thing that escalates this crisis out of control."

His disappointment in Shepard's inclination was beginning to frustrate the turian out of control, and he felt his emotions begin to boil over, going from restrained to unleashed in their entirety, "You don't know that, damn it! These people are batshit insane! They think you're their Lord and Savior, and they won't stop until they get your attention!"

"Exactly!" he shouted, only to realize he was supposed to be keeping quiet and lowered his voice to a dull growl, reluctantly pulling his fist away from the table he had been about to bang in aggravation "Which is  _exactly_ why my involvement would only complicate matters! They want my attention! If I give it to them, then that'll only toss fuel onto the fire! Anything I say could be taken out of fucking context, miscontrued to mean something else...and before you know it, I've unknowingly sanctioned a school shooting! I know this, because examples of this exist throughout human history! That's what cults are! The word of their leaders is gospel, and while I may not lead them, they think I'm destined to do so! They are  _fucking lunatics!_ "

"Spirits Shepard, you're not listening!" he snapped, pointing angrily at the man, "Your lack of action is what's keeping them going! If you don't denounce them, then your silence will be taken as approval! Did your lack of involvement stop the slaughter outside Afterlife? The attempt on Linron's life? Bau's death? No! It only encouraged it! Your silence is more approval than they'll ever need! They're like children trying to get daddy's attention!"

"YES!" he snarled, the sound of a table creaking loudly as the man gripped it intensely being heard very audibly. Shepard winced in pain, flexing his hand to relieve it, before turning back to Garrus, "And once they get that attention, they'll think they've won! That its okay to be a screaming, spoiled little brat who can do what they want! Fact is that I'm happy where I am! I have a life here! I am not uprooting what I've built here just to go on a galactic crusade to stop some loudmouth idiots!"

"That's selfish logic, and you know it!" he retorted plainly, "The Shepard I knew wouldn't be so content with allowing innocent people to die simply because he's tired and unwilling to act! He'd have leapt at the opportunity to pick up a rifle and do some good! He was better than this!"

"Yeah..." the human's voice drifted off, no longer raised at the octave that he had been yelling at before, this time sounding far more reserved and, if Garrus could hear this right, somewhat defeated, "...well, that Shepard died a while ago. He died when he survived falling from orbit, nearly dying to stop the Reapers, and losing most of his fucking body to cloned prosthetics. He died on the Citadel, and woke up a  _different_ person. I don't want that life anymore...I'm not  _capable_ of it. I'm sorry if I'm not the person you want me to be, Garrus. I'm sorry I can't do better than what I've got. But all I have left is the woman I love and the life that rests ahead of me...and I will not compromise or risk that by tackling cultists. I'm...not ready for that. I don't think I ever will be again."

Their argument, however brief it was, simmered down after that statement, and Garrus could feel a pang of guilt reverberate inside him. He had pushed too far and he knew it. Why had he done that? He knew Shepard didn't want to get involved, and he pushed anyway. He shouldn't have let his personal opinion interfere with what he knew was the right thing to say.

Before Garrus could say anything, Shepard sighed, "Look...thanks for the update. Just...let me know if anything else happens."

"I...okay, Shepard," he capitulated, bobbing his head, "And...I'm sorry."

"Don't be," was his response, low and mournful, "Nothing to be sorry for."

The connection was then cut, the transmission ending on Shepard's side. After a moment, the turian exhaled long and deep, falling back into his chair as he pondered what he had just done and said. He growled, frustrated at himself.

_He's trying to come to grips with his new reality, and all I'm doing is making it worse. Some friend I am. Why am I trying to drag him off into another dangerous mission? I saw the toll it took on him and Tali. Constantly dodging bullets, desperately hoping that one of them wouldn't be the one to end it all. War is hell, and he's had enough. I had no right to pressure him like that. I should know better. As his subordinate. As his friend._

Another side of him was still annoyed at Shepard for his stubbornness, for his refusal to help rectify the rectifiable...but in the end, it lost out to Garrus' conscience, and he sagged in his seat as he considered his momentous screw-up. After a moment however, he got the distinct feeling that somebody was watching him, and he looked up from his hand, still staring at his desk as he spoke, "How long have you been standing there?"

There wasn't a second of hesitation, her tone weighed with the seriousness that the situation demanded, "Since the start of the call."

He nodded, before shaking his head, "The things I said...I shouldn't have said that. He didn't need that. I called him selfish...but perhaps I was the one being selfish by trying to goad him into returning to a life he doesn't want to be a part of anymore."

Kasumi listened to him as she made her way to his desk, lifting herself up until she was sitting ontop of the smooth surface, legs dangling off the edge. Her eyes never left him, arms crossed and regarding his words closely. Once he was finished, she shrugged, "Maybe you're wrong. Maybe he needed to hear what you had to say. To make him realize just how bad things are getting. You know what Shep's like. He may pretend he's changed, but he still cares, deep down."

"I know he does," Garrus admitted, clicking his mandibles anxiously, "But he tries so hard to bite it down and keep it under wraps that its infuriating. What I said to him, though...I'm not sure I have any right to ask him to do that. He's earned his rest. Spirits, we all have. Some of us chose to keep working at it...that's fine. But is it really okay for me to go and start asking Shepard to give up the new life he's building just so he can take down a few cultists?"

Kasumi nodded, "I hear you, Gar. Both you and Shepard have your points, and neither of you are really wrong. In the end, what it really comes down to...is allowing Shepard to make the choice. He needs to come to terms with this reality on his own. If there's anything I've learnt from Shep, is that forcefeeding him a decision never works out. He'll either spit it back in your face, or go in the opposite direction out of spite. Its partly why I liked working with him during the Collector days...and I'm sure its also part of the allure for Fishbowl. He refuses to be backed into a corner and pressured into choices. So give him time to breathe. Let it stew in his head for a bit. He'll come around...I'm sure of it."

Garrus peered up at her, "Are you sure about that?"

Kasumi cocked her head at him, "Would a thief ever lie?"

Garrus bit back a laugh, "Are you trying to be ironic?"

Kasumi just pouted, "You're welcome, by the way. I usually charge people for my advice, but I'm making this one free. You know...the topic being Shep and all."

He laughed, hand reaching up to squeeze her leg in genuine appreciation. Perhaps she was right. Shepard just needed time to adjust, to consider what Garrus had said, and to think it over. Isn't that how he operated and approached missions in the past? Think first, shoot later? Its probably how the man had been able to enjoy such a large success rate during his military career. So, in reality, that's likely all he needed. Breathing space. Time to think.

Garrus just hoped he thought fast. Because there was simply no telling just how far this Shepardist business could escalate, or how far the Samaritan was willing to go.

Cultists tended to get out of control, as history was keen to remind everyone.

* * *

 _Rekalhafg, Khar'Shan - January 16, 2188 - Fourteen hours later_.

The sun was setting on the southeastern continent, the dark yellow hues that cast down on the surface of the planet and enriched it with color disappearing as their provenance made its exit beyond the horizon. With this departure came the darkness, shrouding itself over the entire terrestrial plain like a blind mist. A mist that could only be broken by light. Light created by fires and synthetic beacons. These beacons and fires disspelled the darkness. Pushed it away. Gave rise to safety. Allowed the masters of this world to traverse the night unimpeded. Undeterred.

But tonight, the lights of Rekalhafg were few and pathetic. They were merely foot note in the gloom, a few dozen motes of luminescence that failed to cast aside the twilight which encompassed it. Few lights shone in Rekalhafg. Few lights shone anywhere on Khar'Shan. Not since the dark days. Not since a year ago.

Not since the Reapers came and rained fire from the sky.

Driving along the dilapidated and barren motorway that cut through the heart of the once proud city, Ka'hairal Balak could find nothing but bitter and sorrowful reminders of what the Reapers endured upon his people. He hadn't been groundside for when the Reapers made landfall...no, he had been in orbit, assembling a grand fleet to fight back the aggressors who were so ruthlessly invading their homeland. Instead, this fleet was cut to pieces, torn apart like so many pieces of paper, and Balak was left with just a few battlegroups. He had never stayed long enough to witness the horrors that occurred here. The orbit bombardments. The concentration camps. Proud, towering cities reduced to glass. The countryside obliterated, either by batarian WMDs or the Reapers' powerful thanix cannons. No mercy was shown to the inhabitants of Khar'Shan.

Everywhere he looked...despair. Thousands of people without homes...monuments to batarian victories and national pride destroyed and wiped away as some sort of historical cleansing. The Reapers had intended to completely wipe the batarians from existence, and they had nearly succeeded. Out of all the species who fought during the war, the batarians had suffered the worst casualties, losing nearly 84 percent total of their population, having their military reduced to an insignificant 13 percent combat effectiveness, and their government rendered non-existent. While most species seemed to be able to burden the enormous losses they suffered, the batarians were struggling to regain a sense of normalcy.

Their pride was lost. Their identity compromised. The batarian race, a beautiful people...faced collapse.

It angered Balak. When he learned the final battle of the war was to be waged over Earth, he had rolled his eyes. Of course. The humans believe they're the center of everything, so it only makes sense the final battle would take place over their homeworld. Where was the effort to reclaim Khar'Shan? Did the Council or the rest of the galaxy give a damn about his people? No! They swiftly ignored us, acted like we didn't matter...they even kept us out of their damn war summit! Guess we weren't useful...not even numerous enough to be used as cannon fodder! And now they help each other, piecing their civilizations back together...while the batarians once again disappear into obscurity, no help to be found, even though we suffered the most!

This injustice was one the batarians had always been forced to endure. The Council had never liked the batarians...not even during the days when Khar'Shan was a republic. The Free People's Republic of Khar'Shan was an empire of great renown. Everybody feared the batarian military and its indomitable grip, but our government was corrupt and weak. They wanted to be a part of the galactic community, so they sold us out, 'Councilized' us and brought in their disgusting traditions...even accepted their damn currency! The turians are all tough now, but at the height of our power...we could have taken them! But no, we bent over backwards for them... _appeased_ them. Even kissed the boots of those asari whores. Oh...and then came the quarians.

His people had seen the quarians as an easy prize. At that point, the Batarian Empire was looking to expand its influence, and the quarians seemed like an easy target...their government thought so. So they attacked, hit the quarian colony on Pragia, hoping to snag a quick victory and force the quarians to become a protectorate. But then they fought back. They got stronger in their defense, and weeks turned into months, months into years. The Quarian-Batarian War saw the collapse of the Batarian Republic, and the rise of the Batarian Hegemony in the ashes of its civil war, replacing its weak and servile government with strong, effective leadership. Democracy had simply been a hindrance to greatness, and with it gone, their supreme leader, their Supreme Regent, could lead them to a grand future. No longer would they allow the Council to browbeat them. They would be the browbeaters.

But it never came to pass. Their empire disintegrated, plans to enact revenge on the quarians were called off once they were exiled from their homeworld by their own creations, their military was downsized due to cutting costs, state-sanctioned slavery was institutionalized to boost the Hegemony economy, and before one knew it, slaver raids became the primary duty of the once mighty batarian armed forces. A fall from grace.

And now, there was barely anything left at all. The Hegemony was falling apart from slaver revolts they couldn't crush fast enough, they didn't have the military forces to impose order, Supreme Regents were rising and falling every week, and as a result of the chaos, no concerted effort was put into reconstruction. Khar'Shan was coming full circle in its cycle of devolution. The toll of its failures had finally weighed in and judged it guilty, imposing harsh terms upon the accused. The pillars of strength would not be enough to save his people now. It didn't help that the Hegemony was in such a weakened state that the Council was probably leaning towards having it listed as a failed state.

His skycar skidded along the scarred and bent road, the blackened and cracked surfaces evidence of the bombardment it had suffered during the war. Entire sections of road were simply missing, and he had to use night vision imaging just to guide himself around, as even basic lighting along the road was absent. The streets were effectively empty, the remainder of the Hegemony government that still controlled Khar'Shan imposing a strict curfew in an attempt to stop the slaver revolts from spreading to their homeworld. The capital city, Kepcedah, was already showing signs of such insurrections, and the Supreme Regent was desperate to make sure that it didn't spiral out of control. If it did, it would spell the final end for the Hegemony as they knew it.

Balak was watching the downfall of his people, and it saddened him. He had worked his entire life to ensure his people's greatness would not only be recognized, but realized. Instead...it was crumbling all around him, and he could do nothing to halt it.

Slave revolts weren't the only threat to the Hegemony either. A new faction of cultists had arisen inside Hegemony space, proliferating across every batarian world as word of its ideology spread along with it. More and more people joined it every day, their 'disenfranchisement' and disillusionment with their government leading them to seek leadership and inspiration elsewhere. And they found those two qualities in the Shepardists.

Just the thought of Shepard alone made Balak's skin crawl and his stomach churn. He had despised the man from the moment he first learned about him after his failed attack on Elysium in 2176. His actions on Torfan had only reinforced this hatred: the dreaded tale of the Butcher of Torfan, the human soldier who had slaughtered hundreds of surrendering batarian soldiers, had become something of a well known story within the Hegemony military elite, and one the Hegemony made sure to use as a reminder to the public of the threat humanity posed to the batarian people. Balak's encounter with him on Asteroid X57 hadn't furthered his love for the man, and he had been enraged to learn he had claimed responsibility for the Bahak incident that had left 300,000 batarian civilians dead. Shepard held no remorse for his actions, despite his blanket apologies and artificial sorrow, and Balak had promised he would one day find a way to make the man pay for everything he had done. He had escaped justice at Bahak thanks to the timely arrival of the Reapers six months later that had turned batarian attention elsewhere, but one day he would be comfy and safe...only to realize he wasn't, and when that day came, Balak would be there to reap the fruits of Shepard's misery.

Oh, how he abhorred the man. Even working with him during the Reaper War had felt like self-harm. Balak had to resist the urge just to turn around and shoot the man during every war summit and strategic meeting they both attended. He was already hailed as a hero among his people: he would become a legend for being the one to put a bullet in the head of the Butcher of Torfan and Liquidator of Bahak.

So it was no secret that Commander Shepard was something of an enemy of the state of the Batarian Hegemony, and their most hated individual. So to have a religion sprouting up around him was bad enough...having it take root on batarian-held worlds was as near to the definition of treason as Balak could conjure up. Scores of his own people had taken to worshipping their archenemy, discarding the faith of the Pillar for the faith of the Shepard. It made Balak's blood boil.

_If I ever come across one of those traitors...I will garrot them. I will make them drink their own blood and then I will slit their throats. There is no room for apostates and renegades on Khar'Shan._

Officially, Shepardism was banned across the Hegemony, but that didn't stop people for practicing it. It appeared that ever since the great flood of batarian refugees had fled the Reaper occupation of their worlds into the safety offered by the Citadel Council, their people had been unwittingly exposed to the vile and filthy culture of their neighbours, and thus were vulnerable and taken advantage of. Their beliefs and culture fell apart as they were exposed to asari whores, quarian beggars, human barbarians and the devious salarians. They had been manipulated and corrupted, and when they finally returned home, they didn't know what to believe anymore. The 'propaganda' that was meant to shield them from the horrors of galactic culture had been shredded away, leaving them naked and unprotected against the onslaught of cultural pollution.

Shepardism was spreading for a reason: nearly 60 percent of the batarian population now hated the Hegemony government, and another 30 percent were actively taking up arms against them in a series of insurrections that the Supreme Regent feared could escalate into civil war. That left only 10 percent of them being loyalists, Balak among them, and that wouldn't be enough if war came. At least 40 percent of the people identified as Shepardists, despite it being illegal to do so, and it was feared that if war did eventually break out, that these Shepardists and warmongers would join forces against the government...and Balak had his doubts of them coming out ontop in that kind of conflict.

_Shepard...he truly is a pestilence. Everything he touches is corrupted. My own people now kiss his feet and treat him like a god...while he hides away somewhere like a coward. I should have gutted him the day he offered an alliance. I shouldn't have shook his hand...I should have sank my blade into his chest and watched the life leave his eyes. If only my people had won the Skyllian Blitz. There might have been an organization of Balakists instead._

Balak had recently completed the inspection of the nearby Fort Ni'vrk military base, as was his job as Supreme Commander of the Batarian Armed Forces. Balak had enjoyed quite the military career this past decade, rising up the ranks at a pace believed to be befitting that of a die-hard, staunch supporter of the Khar'Shan regime. He had served in both the army and navy, commanded frigates and cruisers, platoons and battalions...he had helped found and spearhead the Hegemony Slaver Corps and its unofficially approved slaver actions in the Traverse and beyond. He had orchestrated the attack on Elysium, the defense of Torfan...and he had masterminded a potentially brilliant first strike plan on Terra Nova using an asteroid as an opening salvo. While none of these plans had succeeded, his initiative, drive and unwavering loyalty had ensured his position in the ranking elite, and his ever-lasting favor among Supreme Regents. Strong was the trust placed in him by the government that he was made supreme regent AND supreme commander of the military when the Hegemony collapsed under the Reapers, and as such, he had led his people to victory during the war. And he had given up his supreme regent's position as was expected of him when the war ended...an action that he was rewarded with by allowing him to keep his title of Supreme Commander.

As such, Balak still commanded the entire batarian military...or what was left of it. He had requested additional resources and subsidies in the hopes that they could at least build up their fleet again, but the money simply wasn't there. Their banks were drying up, and the state was losing its grip on the citizenry. More and more, members of the armed forces were beginning to defect, either becoming Shepardists or joining the growing rebellious sentiment among the serfs. Even Balak was finding it harder and harder to maintain order among his troops, and his most recent inspection of Fort Ni'vrk was part of a personal initiative to keep his men strong and loyal. His adjutant, Ghethar Pab'fogoh, filled in for Balak in the event he was unavailable, ensuring the idea of his omnipotence...the all seeing eye. He had chosen Ghethar because, like him, the young officer was a diehard patriot, and had unwavering determination. He had not hesitated at executing those Balak had found to be deserters or blasphemers, and he had carried out Balak's orders without question. Balak trusted him implicitly. Upon leaving the fort, Ghethar had been left, as per usual, to oversee operations until the morning.

Fort Ni'vrk was something of a bastion. The last stronghold where the garrison was crewed with true believers. The commander of the unit was a priest for the Faith of the Pillar, and thus was deeply religious, and only allowed only holy men to join his unit. As a result, every soldier at that fort was true believer, saints among men, and would give their life for the Hegemony and the people of Khar'Shan...theirs had been the last fort to fall to Reaper forces during the Fall of Khar'Shan in the war. Even then, they had escaped to the wilderness, continuing the fight through guerilla warfare and using the conviction bestowed upon them by the pillars themselves. Balak, despite his inspections, knew they were the least likely to fail, and it was nearly impossible they would ever defect.

Right now however, as Harsa disappeared beyond the horizon and the city of Rekalhafg surrendered to night's embrace, Balak was on his way home. His wife was waiting for him, and he very much needed to relieve himself. Balak had lost his first wife and child during the Reaper War, being unable to save them when the Reapers landed planetside. It had taken him a while to recover, but he had eventually remarried, although they were not quite close to having children. Hopefully tonight would give way to yet another attempt, if the pillars looked upon him and his wife favorably.

Balak's faith was strong. The pillars would smile down on him and his wife, surely. Perhaps the time simply wasn't right?

It wasn't long before he had cleared the city limits and was fast approaching his villa on the outskirts of the city. As a high-ranking military member, he did enjoy many of the conveniences afforded by that rank, and that included the house he lived in. Most batarians couldn't afford to live in the luxury that Balak did, and only the most patriotic could even experience it. This villa was also the same one the Supreme Regent himself had given Balak following the formation of the Slaver Corps, has it had remained unsurprisingly untouched by the Reapers during their campaign: likely too significant for them to waste time demolishing. Balak had expunged no effort moving back in, and he had been living there ever since, left to his own devices. He never really had to bother maintaining it, largely because the slave he owned, a human male, did all the cleaning for him. This slave was a new one, so new he hadn't even bothered to give him a name, but so far he knew his master well, and his wants even better. Not an ounce of resistance had come out of him: no doubt the magic touch of the Slaver Corps had broken the man's spirit. They never failed to churn out servile, obedient servants. After all, their job was to maintain the life blood of the Hegemony. Such a task demanded efficiency and perfection.

His skycar gracefully and skillfully navigated its way across the round and numerous hills of the prairies, the grass and dirt glowing in such dark, blood red that Balak's ancestors, the ones who had lived on his land, had taken to naming it the Red Grasslands. Balak couldn't help but admire its beauty, hence why such an area was a popular location for high-ranking batarian officials to retire to or seek residence. Balak continued to appreciate this magnificence as his skycar crested the final hill, his villa appearing a hundred meters away, the three storey building a dominant and aggressive display of batarian architecture and strength. He wasted no time in bringing his skycar's profile low to the ground, slowing the vehicle down simultaneously as it headed straight for the garage, the door of which was already opening as its motion sensors detected the oncoming aircraft. And with the timed precision of a well-trained pilot, the skycar glided under the opening door, coming to land gently on the concrete floor of the garage, ending shut off as it completed its landing, the automatic lights of the room switching on, as if in greeting to the resident.

With a sigh, his back leaning into the padded surface as he stretched, the batarian commander keyed the ignition for his vehicle and quickly made his exit, closing the door behind him with a click. It took him but a few moments to reach the door that exited to the rest of the house, and he quickly stepped through it.

The first thing he noticed caused him to stand dead still, all his forward motion ceasing as all of his senses began to tingle at once. It was dead quiet: not a sound to be heard. Normally his wife would have the news on, or would be listening to the latest news through the comms network. His slave would be hard at work, either cleaning the house or performing numerous other chores that would generate enough sound for Balak to immediately identify. He could hear none of these things...nothing but dead air. All the autolights were on, indicating somebody was present in the house other than Balak, and the batarian frowned in confusion.

"Dachi?" he called out to his wife, trying to get her attention. His voice echoed through the corridor, the sound loud enough that anybody who was waiting outside could have heard it. But there was no response. He waited a few seconds, taking baby steps down the hallway before calling out again. Still nothing. Not so much as a squeak: the only sound he heard was his own breathing and the click clack of his boots on the floor.

He kept moving until he was at the door leading into the kitchen. From here, his nostrils could pick up a distinct smell. It was a scent he was quite familiar with: it was  _Dacpehan_ , Balak's preferred meal. It was a scent he was incapable of not recognizing, and he could hear the sizzling of the pot inside through the door. His wife was definitely at home. From the sounds of it, she was currently cooking him dinner, as she always did around this time.

Thumbing the door, he stepped through, immediately rounding to the right, where the kitchen was located, with the lounge room on the left. Two glass sliding doors opened up at the back to the backyard, where a cool breeze was wafting in from outside, expelling the humidity of the room. Steam from the boiling pot poured out into the night air, carrying with it the delicious smell of  _Dacpehan._

Balak, turning to the kitchen in preparation to welcome his wife, was in the process of opening his mouth to speak when he stopped altogether, eyes widening at the sight he was greeted with. Additionally, the new smell he was  _now_ greeted with sent his nostrils flaring as well.

His wife was definitely home: just not alive. Her body lay sprawled out across the tiled floor, mouth open and her sharp teeth bared for all to see. One of her eyes was half open, while the other three were closed shut. From what he could see, all her clothing was present...the only thing that was different was the blood. Crimson liquid that seemingly stained her entire body from the neck, down. Droplets of red stained her forehead, but mostly her torso and legs, her clothing stained a deep vermilion. He could immediately see what had killed her: a long, wicked looking gash ran the length of her throat, opening it up wide enough to see her ruptured oesophagus. Her lips were stained black from the sheer volume of essence she must have regurgitated when her throat was cut. Her hands lay splayed out across the floor, almost like she had been taken by surprise, her body left the way it had landed.

Blood stained the bench, the cardboards, and even slickened the floor. Balak looked down to find his boots had already stepped in it, and the metallic-sweet effluvium of the blood itself showed no mercy on his nostrils, causing them to flare up in disgust, despite how used to the malodour he was. He found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move, stunned by the sight of his dead wife, killed in such a brutish and vicious way, lying on the floor as her blood spilled through the kitchen.

_Who could have done this? Why?_

The first suspect, it so happens, entered his mind just as he heard movement at the sliding doors. He whirled in an instant to find a human male standing there, his own face and torso covered in blood, the blood of Balak's late wife, to the point where he looked almost like he had crawled out of a vat of the liquid. The slave himself was a scrawny, almost to the point of looking bony, with what few clothes the Slaver Corps had allowed him to carry on his back being all he wore. His cheekbones were caved in somewhat, and his whitish, pale skin made him look almost ghostly. Balak towered over him, and physically, they weren't even a match. The batarian would have no trouble beating him to a pulp. What confused him was...why him? Why the slave?

The confirmation was there: if the fresh blood soaking his shirt, his naked feet leaving bloody footprints on the floor, wasn't enough, then the blade held in his hand, recently used, definitely did it for him. Balak felt rage flood through him, and he growled as he turned towards the slave.

"You insolent little pest," Balak snapped, beginning to move towards him, "How  _dare_ you. You killed my fucking wife? Who the fuck do you think-?"

"You shall be punished," the slave interrupted, dropping the 'master' pronoun for the first time since Balak had purchased him. The disrespect it demonstrated only added fuel to Balak's already flaring anger, the batarian feeling the urge to wrap his hands around the filthy rat's neck and crushing his windpipe.

"Punished?" Balak asked mockingly, baring his cruel teeth as he grinned wide, "You misunderstand, you little creature. You are the one who will be punished. You are a slave. I  _own_ you. Killing my wife? If you think the slave trainers were harsh, you will be surprised to see what I do with you. I will lash you to within an inch of your life...and just when you think its all over, I'll have your skin peeled, inch by inch, until there is nothing-"

The slave, during Balak's rant, didn't look worried in the least. The alarming and terrifying descriptions of what the batarian intended to do with his sentient property didn't seem to faze him at all: in fact, he looked smug. No smile graced his lips, as the slave hadn't smiled for years, but the look in his eyes screamed glee, and as he spoke, cracked lips and yellow teeth flaring at Balak, there was no fear in his tone either, "The Crusader will punish you."

Finally, Balak stopped his approach, hiding his surprise at hearing that word. It was not one he expected to hear in this household, in his own office, or from his own men. He  _certainly_ hadn't expected it from his own slave.  _The Crusader...that's the term Shepardists use to refer to Shepard. Its their title for him. How did this...? I don't even let him leave the house without me or my wife's supervision, how could he have learnt of the Shepardists, let alone joined them?_

He shook his head, smile reforming.  _No matter. He thinks Shepard will protect him? Shepard doesn't free slaves, and he is most certainly not going to save this one. The fool will get what he deserves, and he will die screaming in agony, begging for his Crusader to save him. And I will laugh._

"Shepard isn't here," Balak spat, smile dissipating to be replaced with fervent hatred as he continued to step forth, "He's far away, and there's nothing he can do to save you. Do you really think he's going to risk his life to liberate you? He's a broken and pathetic little man who has had his fame, and now he's gone. He isn't going to save you, and he can't even touch me: I know, because I've met him many times. He's never succeeded in catching me. I always allude him. I evaded him before, I'll do it again. You're just a pathetic slave I bought from auction, and I can have you replaced just as easily. You little rodent. You  _far'tagh!_ "

Still, the slave never trembled. He barely even moved. He just...stared at Balak. This glassy, lifeless stare that seemed to both look right through Balak and right into his soul. The batarian had seen it in the eyes of many slaves before: ones who had been broken so severely, that they lacked any sort've personality in them whatsoever. But while his slave had never been particularly lively, this kind of dead-eyed stare had Balak stumble for a moment.

He looked far too smug. Too...confident.

He stopped, eying the slave with as much execration as possible, "What are you looking so smug about?"

Summoned by the question alone, the sound of footsteps made themselves heard behind him. As he turned to address the sound, he watched with widening eyes as shadows emerged at the corners of the room, morphing themselves into actual people as they stepped into the light. From here, Balak could see they were all batarians wearing the dishevelled and dirty clothing of the peasantry. All of them looked upon Balak with varying levels of disdain, but they all looked upon him with menace. The door that Balak came from also opened, dispositing another two angry looking batarians, with another one coming from the doorway leading out of the kitchen, stepping through Balak's wife's blood like it was nothing.

In just seconds, Balak was surrounded. Angry, unfamiliar faces hissed and glared at him, all of them glaring at him with intent. The slave's mute posture remained the same, and it soon dawned on Balak just why he had been so confident: they had planned this. Balak's wife was likely just collateral: a convenient lure that they hadn't quite intended, but had used to their advantage. Balak himself had been the target, and these batarians, whose allegiance he couldn't identify but were assumed to be Shepardists, had probably enlisted this slave to help them. Likely filled his head with lies and manipulative propaganda in order to make him rebel against his master. He could tell he was outnumbered just by looking at the seven or so people in the room with him. All of them wielded weapons, and he was completely cut off from all sources of escape. But Balak had one thing they stupidly didn't account for.

Batarians were a physically strong race. They were stronger than humans on average, and that was just the everyday batarian. But Balak was military. His body had been honed and built to kill, and he was twice as strong as the usual batarian. These batarians looked fairly strong, but Balak knew a few techniques he could use to catch them offguard. In the few moments it took for him to analyze the room, he had already chosen his first target: his former slave.

"The Crusader will rise again," the slave began to preach, "Like a phoenix, he will shed his current burdens and return anew, bringing forth the strength he once exerted and bringing light to all corners of the galaxy. And we, his followers, will take upon ourselves the mission of preparing this galaxy for that time. But first it must be cleansed of sinners. Of non-believers. Of the evil and wicked. The Batarian Hegemony is evil. It is corrupt, greedy and exploitive. It must be destroyed, and the weeds that sprouted it cut out and poisoned so they may never rise again."

Balak just laughed, the sound a crackle as a result of the batarian accent, "We are an  _empire_. A batarian empire! You're just a worm. All of you! You can't possibly think you can tackle the might of an empire. You're insignificant."

"All empires fall," one of the traitors spat, "The first empire fell when Khar'Shan united. The second empire fell when the quarians defeated us and when the civil war ended. And the third empire will end with the Crusader...with his disciples. We will bring Khar'Shan into the modern era. The Good Samaritan will show us the way!"

 _Such drivel. Nonsense. Blasphemy._ "You're well educated for a peasant," Balak mocked, waving a dismissive hand, "But you misremember. The batarian empire never fell, our governments did! The empire has, and forever will, endure! Your Crusader will enjoy no salvation on this planet!"

"You are Ka'hairal Balak," another batarian announced, pointing at him, "The Crusader and the Good Samaritan have judged you guilty by your actions. You have murdered and enslaved hundreds...perhaps even thousands...of innocent people. You have profitted from misery and you have pledged loyalty to a regime that favors self-preservation over that of its people's preservation. There can be no repentance for the things you have done. You must be punished. The Crusader will demand it."

He pointed back at the peasant, ice filling his tone, "Shepard couldn't stop me before, and he never will. I doubt his little band of zealots are going to be much more than a few leaves in a breeze. What is your name, serf? I think I might find your governor and tell him what you've been up to. The Faith of the Crusader is illegal to practice on Khar'Shan...I can have you all executed for this. And that's  _nothing_ ," he turned to his slave, "Compared to what I have in store for you. The Hegemony deals harshly with rebelling slaves."

"You have been tried and found guilty," the slave declared, ignoring everything else Balak had said, unfazed by the supreme commander's threats, "The Good Samaritan has found you guilty. The Crusader has passed his judgment in absentia. Do you have any last words?"

"Before what?" he snarled, turning so his face was inches from the slave's, "Who the fuck do you think you are to deliver ultimatums to me? You're  _nothing._ A piece of property I can have liquidated like one liquidates money. I can sell you off for scrapping like one scraps a ship. I am  _Ka'hairal Balak_!  _I_ am the judge, jury and executioner! You have no authority here!  _None_! What  _is_ going to happen is-"

"You are hereby sentenced to death," he snapped, destroying whatever illusion of power Balak believed he still had, "However, due to the nature of your crimes, your body will be used as an example to others of what will come to those who have declared for villainy. They will be shown no quarter, and we will not stop until they've all been brought to justice. You have spent too long scurrying around in the shadows. Now...the judgment day has come."

He heard it before he saw it: footsteps moving towards him. Now. Now was his time to make a move. They were going to try and restrain him: he had to escape before they could achieve this. And once he did...

_I'll come back with an army at my back. And then I will kill them all, the recalcitrant pieces of vermin._

He whirled around, bringing his elbow soaring through the air like a rocket as it impacted the first batarian's face. The sickening crack of a nose being shattered rang through the room like a door bell, a flash of blood smearing the man's chin and lips as he stumbled back, taken by surprise from the sudden blow. Balak didn't slow down either, immediately turning to the second batarian. Using his slow response time to his advantage, he brought his other arm up, slapped the batarian's hanging arms aside, and then wrapped his hands firmly around his neck, wrenching it quickly and firmly at an unnatural angle. The resounding snap, followed by the batarian crumbling to the ground, was the first kill of the night.

It would also be his last.

A flash of movement was all Balak got to see as he turned to his third opponent, as a flash was all he was afforded. This flash was followed by a sharp, blinding pain as the chair his third assailant had picked up splintered apart upon impact with the top of Balak's head. He must have acted quickly, grabbing the chair the instant the fight began in an effort to neutralize the batarian military officer, knowing an elongated fight would end with them dead. The pain in Balak's skull was intense, throbbing around like rapidly detonating firecrackers inside his head. He unwittingly fell to his knees, blinking to clear the myopia that was beginning to creep into his vision. The stinging and pulsing agony that flowed through his senses felt immobilizing, and as a result, he couldn't will himself to stand up. To keep fighting.

_No...it won't end like this! I am Ka'hairal Balak, Haliat of Elysium! I am the one chance the Hegemony has left to rebuild its glory and bring vengeance to Shepard's doorstep!_

But despite Balak's feeble, mental protests, the fight was over. He could barely move, the pain in his skull was inhibiting his ability to focus, and he couldn't see anything. Worse, he could feel blood trickling down his face from the numerous cuts and abrasions littering his face, wood fragments having sliced at him as the chair had exploded on impact. He growled, practically snarled, at himself to continue fighting, but it was no use. He was done.

In one blow, from a damn chair no less, the one chance Khar'Shan had to relive the days of an empire had been destroyed in one fell swoop.

He felt a hand grab at the back of his head, tugging it back. The bright light of the dining room shone directly into Balak's murky vision, obscuring his ability to see even further, but he was able to make out the dark, blurry image of a face hovering over his. He felt the cold bite of a blade press up against his neck, and his eyes widened in anticipation of what was about to happen. He roared his defiance.

The slave that stood victorious over him didn't care, "Your time is done. You don't own me anymore."

He continued to snarl, spittle flying from his mouth like a rabid animal.

And then the slave tore the blade across Balak's bare neck.

A roar turned into putrid gurgling, blood fountaining from Balak's mouth and neck, vision beginning to blacken. Balak could only watch as his body fell back onto the ground, six figures standing over him, watching on with complete indifference, watching the death of one of Khar'Shan's greatest political and military figures unfold before their eyes. Balak's eyes could only roll up into his skull as his lungs heaved futilely for more oxygen, only for them to be deprived of it.

Balak died in that dining room, hands cradling his throat in a futile effort to stop more of his essence leaking out, only for that to cease as the energy left his body and his arms fell to his sides...just like his wife. An ignominious end for such a pivotal historical individual.

* * *

 _Rekalhafg, Khar'Shan - January 17, 2188 - The day after_.

Something wasn't right.

Lieutenant Ghethar Pab'fogoh had been Balak's adjutant for seven months now, and he could say, without a modicum of doubt, that he was the finest batarian officer he had ever had the pleasure of serving under. He had served many years of service in the Hegemony Army before joining the Slaver Corps, where he became far more intimately involved in the affairs of the Hegemony's main revenue providing branch. The Slaver Corps was an unconventional military branch in that it had its own army and naval forces, albeit far smaller than the actual Army and Navy had, and was focused entirely on one goal: slave grabs. Whenever a slaver raid occurred, you could bet the Slaver Corps was involved.

Ghethar had been a mere peasant when he joined the Army, but thanks to his intense sense of patriotism to state and people, it hadn't taken him long to rise above and beyond his former class restriction. Now he was a respected member of the Hegemony, and the one shortlisted and chosen to be personal adjutant to the great Ka'hairal Balak himself. To say it had been an immense honor would be a grand understatement. Every batarian loyalist longed to service with Balak, the Hegemony's pride and joy. The humans had Shepard...but the batarians had Balak. He was their national icon. The embodiment of the perfect batarian officer. Becoming his adjutant? There was no other honor like it.

In the short time Ghethar had known him, he knew Balak was a strict, but fair, commander. He would execute treacherous dissent in an instant, but if you demonstrated your loyalty through hard work and commitment, he would make sure you were rewarded for it. Many had known Balak's favor and profitted greatly from it in both prestige and quality of life. Ghethar himself had already been approached numerous times for promotions simply on the basis that he served with Balak, and he had even attended several meetings with the Supreme Regent and his cabinet with Balak. If his father could see him now...he just knew he'd be proud of his son. Unfortunately, his father had died when the Grand Slaver Army the Slaver Corps had assembled to attack Elysium in 2176 was decimated by Commander Shepard. Because of this, Ghethar had even more in common with Balak: its possible that was one of the reasons that played into Balak choosing him as adjutant. Both of them shared a fervent hatred of Shepard and humanity, and both of them wanted to see him dead.

Ghethar also knew Balak to be punctual. He never missed a meeting, an inspection or party. He was always on time. As he often said, 'tardiness is not rewarded with anything but skepticism.' Balak even berrated other soldiers under his command for their own lateness, and sometimes dolled out light punishments for it. Balak ran a tight ship, and nobody questioned it.

At least not until Balak himself was late.

Balak was supposed to have arrived at Fort Ni'vrk eight hours ago, but he never showed up. The garrison's command didn't question it, at least until they finally caved and rang him up a few minutes ago, only to find out he wasn't responding to his omni-tool or on the secure military channel he was attached to. As such, Ghethar willingly volunteered to go to Balak's house to find out what had happened to him and to get a report if he was there. Perhaps Balak was simply having a bad day? Had a few too many drinks, and slept in?

_No, that doesn't sound like the Supreme Commander at all. He rarely drinks, and when he does, its in small amounts. And even if he were to drink...why would he do it the night before his shift? This level of incompetence is something he'd deal lashes for. There's simply no way he'd have this bad of a lapse in judgment. Something is wrong, and its my duty to find out. I'm his adjutant._

His skycar shot through Rekalhafg just as the Harsa sun began to crest the horizon. Brilliant cones of light reflected off the wrecked and diseased buildings of the city, shining through window panes and onto the streets below. Today wasn't forecasted to be too hot, but with a lot of the orbital network down or inoperative, accurate weather reporting was ranging from difficult to impossible across the planet. Rainfall was forecasted for later in the day, but for the morning, the highest temperature would average at 19  _verr_  (25 degrees celsius). A tolerable temperature, as far as Khar'Shan went.

It wasn't long before his skycar had left the confines of Rekalhafg, and he was speeding towards Balak's villa with all due haste. Luckily, the villa itself was only six kilometers outside the city limits, resting firmly on the outskirts, so he had managed to navigate the Red Grasslands within minutes, and had the commander's residence coming into view in no time.

Not wanting to worry his superior, he landed his skycar just a few meters outside the front of the house and made sure to approach purely on foot. He felt his clothing flap in the breeze as the wind came and went, his feet crunching on the gravel that formed the villa's perimeter. His eyes made a quick scan of the house's forward structure, but found nothing of note: the top storey of the house was draped in shadow, with the light only just beginning to creep up on it. Ghethar thought nothing of it as he continued his approach, quickly reaching the front door of the house and knocking on it loudly and intrusively.

"Supreme Commander Balak!" he shouted, making sure his voice was heard with clarity, "Its Lieutenant Pab'fogoh! Is everything okay!?"

He waited a few moments, then knocked again. After his third knock, and the absence of any sort of reply, Ghethar began to get worried. Moving to the left, he placed a hand over his eyes and peered through the window, but found no evidence of any movement from inside the building.

_Where is he, if not home?_

Deciding to try his luck with a perimeter search, Ghethar moved back into the sunlight, and was readying himself to perform a search when he felt something drip onto his head. It felt like a droplet of water, but from what he could remember, rainfall wasn't expected until much later. He thought nothing of it until the next three drops hit his head, and when he reached up to dab at it, he found the liquid to be much heavier than water. Pulling his hand back to get a good look at it, his eyes widened greatly when he found his fingers dabbed in red.

Another drop impacted his head as he slowly looked up to the source of the droplets. The sunlight was a bit glaring, hindering his ability to see, so he took a few steps back, the red liquid beginning to drip onto the gravel, where Ghethar now noticed a growing pool that he somehow hadn't noticed before. Finally, he had stopped at a position far enough away that the glare couldn't impede what he saw, and when he finally looked up, his eyes widened in horror.

The sunlight had now pushed aside the tenebrosity that obscured the top portion of the house, revealing the horror it had shielded from his view. There, hanging from the edge of the roof from some creaking rope, was the body of a batarian. Blood dripped steadily from the stiff, oozing from every single orifice. As his vision cleared up, more details of the body came to light, including the fact it was flayed: every inch of muscle was exposed, from head to toe, with no clothing left on it. No skin was left untouched, with every vein brazenly left revealed: only their eyes were left unmauled. However, underneath all the uncovered thew, the outline of the letter 'C' carved straight into the man's skull was clear for all to see.

Despite not having incontrovertible proof of who the person was, Ghethar didn't need such evidence to know whose body it was. It was Ka'hairal Balak's.

_B-b-by the p-pillars...what k-k-kind of monster could have done t-this?_

With Balak's body came further horrors. Likely written in his blood, messages were displayed conspicuously in Khar'shek, the batarian language. The first one to Balak's immediate right was 'the Crusader's justice is nigh', a clear reference to the people who did this and why they did it. Below that was 'the Samaritan's war begins', and 'death to the Hegemony.' To the left, more messages appeared. 'The Crusader's light will tarnish all who have challenged it' and 'there is nowhere for evil to hide' were among some of these vandalisms, and the messages just got more horrendous from there. They painted a clear picture of the barbarism that had taken place here.

_The Shepardists...they have to be behind this. They murdered Balak and Shepard authorized it. That man is going to pay for this...orchestrating the murder of one of Khar'Shan's finest heroes? That's...grounds for war! He will pay for this! When the government hears of this, they'll crack down on these Shepardists! They have to! They're out of control! Maniacs! Zealots! A corruption upon our people!_

Ghethar could take no more of it. He felt rooted to the spot, but he knew he had to get to his skycar and contact Supreme Command so let them know what had happened to their commander. An investigation would no doubt be launched, and heads would roll. The death of Balak at the hands of Shepardists would lead to outcry, but at least it'd get the attention it deserved...the kind of attention that would end these Shepardists once and for all.

He finally mustered the willpower to turn away from the horrific sight, only to find himself fall still again.

Coming from behind his skycar, and the left of right, where at least a dozen or so batarians, slowly closing on him from all sides. He hadn't heard them come up, he hadn't seen them on his approach to the house, and he hadn't accounted for their presence. On instinct, he quickly checked behind him and found the front door open, with at least seven more batarians, including a clean shaven, bony looking human that he identified as Balak's slave also approaching. There had to be at least a dozen or so of them, possibly more, emerging from the sides like worms out of woodwork. They quickly blocked off access to his skycar, and within moments, he wasn't even able to reach the house itself anymore. He was completely cut off.

Fear gripped him. Indomitable, uncontrollable fear. His legs began to shake, and the urge to beg for his life was beginning to well up in his throat, only to be stopped at the last second by an inability to speak, coming out in a mere sputter. None of the people stalking towards him showed any remorse or trepidation in their eyes. They didn't look regretful, and they certainly didn't look merciful. They all had the stench of death in their eyes and posture, the knives in their hands only adding to the pit of dread Ghethar felt forming up inside him.

They didn't cease. Their gazes were dark and cold. They eyed him like butchers eyed a sack of meat. He felt naked and alone, outnumbered and defenseless. He had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. They were closing from all sides, and he was trapped like an animal, with nobody for kilometers to come to his aid.

Ghethar prayed to the pillars for mercy, just as the batarians stopped, looked to their leader, the slave, awaiting his approval. The slave stared at Ghethar one final time, before nodding.

The blades glinted in the sunlight. Their cold, ruthless steel sharpened and ready to slice. Tools for cutting readied for doing just that.

Ghethar felt the urge to scream. He did not resist. The air escaped his lungs in a howl as the group pounced on him, knifes darting forward infront of them to commence their slaughter. He raised his arms to defend himself, but all that did was make his arms their best victim.

He screamed and screamed, and he kept screaming until he could do so no longer. Steel flashed and sung, slicing and cutting away. Strings of flesh flew and flapped, clothing tore and ripped, and his screaming went through randomized, intermittent pings of elevated and lowering octave. Eventually, the screams stopped altogether, his guts spilling out onto the dirty gravel as the knifes never ceased their butchery.

When the Shepardists finally dispersed from their lynching, there was nothing left to recognize the corpse by. Just a mangled face, a file of rotting intestines, and lifeless eyes staring up into the sky.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**I've got to stop promising increased upload schedules.** _

_**I know, I done did an oopsie. I promised this chapter would be out sooner than it was, and now its been several weeks. I've had a lot of shit going on, and most of that shit has impeded my ability to write, so that's something I have no control over. It didn't help that I ran into author's block on the days that I did have nothing to do, which only threw a wrench into it. Thankfully, this chapter is finally done, and you guys can enjoy it.** _

_**I'll be taking a few days break from this to relieve some stress, then I'll tackle the next Flashpoint prompt. Next chapter will be a whole lot more interesting: let's just say the "war" is going to keep escalating every single chapter, and Chapter 9 will be no different. You think Balak's death was brutal? Wait till you see this.** _

_**Until then...some music suggestions:** _

**Wedding Talk: "Concerning Hobbits" by Howard Shore from the film** _**The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring.** _

**Garrus Struggles: "The Pipe" by Thomas Newman from the film** _**Brothers.** _

**Balak's Death/Ghethar's lynching: "Through the Ergosphere" by Simon Wilkinson.**


	10. Stairway to Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conrad visits Shepard on Rannoch. Garrus tries to convince Shepard of his foolhardiness. An escalation occurs on Khar'Shan.

" _We are looking for value, guidance, advice, inspiration; for someone to show us the way. When we find him, he is our hero._ " - Bangambiki Habyarimana.

* * *

 _El'Tivv, Rannoch - January 17, 2188 - Four and a half hours after Ghethar's murder_.

Conrad had never visited Rannoch before now. He probably still wouldn't have, if it hadn't been for the will of the Good Samaritan.

No...the will of the  _Crusader_. The Samaritan was merely a conduit for the Crusader's wishes. An intermediary gifted with the powers and  _carte blanche_ to act as they see fit in the name of the Crusader, where his absence prohibits him from being able to make those same decisions himself. The Samaritan was just the middle man. The bridge connecting two people. The Crusader was their true leader.

In truth, Conrad was still finding it difficult to forfeit his problems with the Good Samaritan. The man, while not much of a braggart or investing much in the likes of pride, still had a dignity about him, and to have his entire organization, the one he had worked tirelessly to build and maintain, swept out from under his feet was a major setback. Conrad had found himself back at square one, right where he began: an admiration for his idol, his role model, and nobody to share it with. Except maybe Jenna.

If Conrad had to point out a specific time and place for when his adoration, exaltation and near-pious reverence for the galaxy's most famous commander had begun...it was probably the day he had gotten back from the completion of his last university examination. He had, for all intents and purposes, graduated from the University of Terra Nova, having finally, after years of painstaking research and staunch dedication to study, had completed his Xenotechnology degree, having submitted a doctoral dissertation on dark energy integration that left his professors stumped. He had been sitting down in his lounge room when his wife turned on the news...and there it was. Elysium had been attacked, raided by batarian slavers looking for glory and riches, only to carry the bitter taste of defeat in their mouths as one soldier, one human, single-handedly defeated their invasion force. Conrad remembered how the battle had taken the galaxy by storm: after all, it seemed like something out of fantasy. A single man taking on an army of ten thousand and coming out covered in blood but very much alive  _and_  triumphant? Not even the best of the best of special forces were thought to be capable of such a feat. Yet Commander Shepard had done it, and had humanity had grabbed the galaxy's attention because of it.

How could Conrad  _not_  admire him? He was humanity's hero...a man of principle, a skilled warrior, an accomplished professional in the art of diplomacy, and more so than anything else, a miracle worker. There had been something special about him from day one: Conrad knew it, and when Saren Arterius turned himself loose upon the galaxy just seven years later...he was proven right. And he practically had a front row seat.

Conrad considered himself lucky in that he got to meet his hero: not many got that lucky. They were forced to observe their role model's actions from afar, tracing their movements with a fine comb and keeping track of their every achievement. But Conrad, perhaps by pure chance, got his moment. He was simply walking through a market on the Citadel, and there he was...Commander Shepard, flanked by two of his marine subordinates, shopping in the store right next to him. He'd be lying if he said he didn't squeal inwardly right there. And just like that, it appeared Conrad's fate would be tied to the man for the rest of his life.

Things took a spiral from there. He did a few things that, looking back on them, weren't the brightest decisions of his life. He had first asked Shepard for an autograph, then a photo...no harm in that right? It impressed his wife (or so he thought), so that was a bonus. But then, for whatever reason, he asked Shepard to make him a spectre. Perhaps he got caught up in the moment...he became so enthralled with the man that he wanted any opportunity to talk to him, and he had gotten it into his head that he could help him in combat: a foolish gesture, given Conrad's lack of combat experience. But, at the time...it had seemed right.

Shepard of course had none of it, and rightly put him in his place...told him to set aside his weapon for his datapad, and to instead his knowledge and skills to help Shepard, instead of playing soldier. He hadn't seen it that way initially, and wouldn't for two years, leaving him bitter and humiliated. His wife gradually got tired of his behaviour, leading to arguments that Conrad just ended up surrendering to in her favor just so she'd stop yelling at him. When he got the 'bold' idea to follow in Shepard's footsteps after news of his death, even buying up weapons and fake armor for the job, she had gone silent. When he left for Illium, she put up no objections. He had foolishly believed she had accepted who he was and was finally at peace with it.

In reality, she had been waiting for him to leave, so that she could pack up her stuff and go. She'd finally had enough, and he couldn't blame her. When he ran into Shepard again on Illium, got straightened out once again, and returned home to find the house empty...he had been intelligent enough to piece together what happened. Throwing his weapons and bargain bin armor in the trash, he sold his house and moved to the Citadel, hoping to make a difference by joining Cerberus so that he could help Shepard. Again, more delusions of grandeur.

The rest was obvious: the war came around, Conrad 'helped' to recruit new Cerberus members, Shepard sorted him out  _again._  The only difference this time was that Conrad finally did something useful. When the Cerberus mole Conrad had ratted out to Shepard pulled a gun on the commander, Conrad didn't even think about what he did next: he threw himself in front of the commander, ostensibly taking the bullet for him. In reality...the gun had misfired, and hadn't fired anything at all.

The woman behind it was Jenna McLean. And what they had from that point forward...she understood him. Completely. Accepted who he was, adopted his ideals, and even eventually helped him found the Shepardists in the end. He didn't know where he would be without her. She had the gumption and bravery to do what he couldn't, and was incredibly intelligent. Together, they were a bit of a dynamic duo. Or so he fashioned.

Jenna was the kind of woman who understood him. His wife never quite could, which is why they inevitably drifted apart. But Jenna...she not only liked what she saw, she wanted to share it with him. She went from being his friend, to his girlfriend, and then finally, to co-founding the Shepardists with him. He couldn't think of a more loyal friend to him than Jenna McLean. She was kind, smart, and ardent. She also possessed traits that he sorely lacked: Shrewdness. Pertinacious, when the time calls for it. Intrasigent in the face of bullying or unreasonable demands. These were all quirks and lineaments that Conrad wished he could have, strived to acquire, but fell short on at every corner. Conrad, at his heart, was a good man with good intentions, but lacked the resolve to see them through. Jenna was his answer and solution. And he couldn't be more thankful for her now constant presence in his life. Together, the two of them had forged the Shepardist movement into something wonderful. A place from which to conduct their admiration of the Commander in a closed environment, without bothering the man and without impinging upon his occupation. Conrad had learned his lesson. He would not repeat the mistakes of the past.

But Conrad had grown complacent. His weakness and maladroitness, the sempiternal truth that underlies the seemingly inescapable fabric of Conrad's fate, had given way to a fool's paradise. He had been living a dream. His relationship with Jenna, and the subsequent bond their shared creed had forged with the people they had brought into their inner circle had ended up creating an inadvertently optimum breeding ground for the very thing Conrad had hoped to avoid.

And just like that...what had taken Conrad and Jenna over a year to slowly build up had been snatched out from under them with one prescient speech and a snake-like exploitation of their charity. The Good Samaritan had played them like a fiddle, taken everything they had constructed, and usurped them of their own organization within just a day and a half. Conrad had, once again, screwed up. And like all the other times this had happened, he was left speechless and helpless to stop it.

He was a meek man. He knew that. When this...Good Samaritan, an alias given to a man who refused to part with his real name, showed up and took over, Conrad had hardly raised a finger to stop him. He was a pushover, and the Samaritan knew and took advantage of it. Jenna was the one who, unsurprisingly, resisted the most, but in the end, it all came to nothing. The Samaritan remained in full control, commanded the loyalty of the other Shepardists with his actions and words, and held more sway and influence than Conrad and Jenna ever did. He even has a krogan bodyguard protecting him: Conrad, in the entire year he was the leader, could never prescribe that degree of respect, let alone obtain it.

So all he could do was roll over. Roll over and play nice. That's all Conrad was good at. That, and talking up a crowd.

The dynamic duo? Now they were merely pawns in the Samaritan's game of spying and stealth. It was a game that the Samaritan, admittedly, was very good at, and had played masterfully. He had even outsmarted the Citadel Council and their spectres, killing one of them and then sneaking off under the cover of darkness to snag their ships and make a run for it, eventually situating themselves on their new headquarters of Sanctum. They didn't get much time to get comfy though, because not long after, most of the Shepardist leadership was sent off to the four corners of the galaxy to find and gather their most loyal members and bring them to Sanctum and the surrounding systems for safe harbour. It was here that Conrad and Jenna had to part ways, the latter going to Earth while the former left for Rannoch. Conrad had felt every moment of her absence, and with it, came vulnerability. He felt alone and unprotected...completely without guidance. Jenna was the rock that kept him anchored to reality, and without her, he felt like he was wading through a swamp of unknowns.

He hated how isolated he felt. But his mission was clear: bring their quarian and geth followers to Sanctum. The Samaritan had a secondary objective for him, but it would have to wait until his primary mission was complete. Conrad had promised him this, and he would see it through. Like him or not, he was loyal to the Shepardists and what they believed in, and he had come to accept the Faith of the Crusader. Shepard truly was a Crusader, he had seen it, and he would do everything in his power to make sure the prophecized return of the man to the galactic scene as their glorious dictator and liberator would be facilitated successfully.

Conrad was many things...a lot of them were failures, but of the few successes in his life he had come to enjoy...talking up a crowd was one of them. This he could do.

He just needed that extra boost of self-confidence. The source of which was currently away on the human homeworld.

"Relax, Conrad," gave her sweet, distracting voice as it passed through his omni-tool's speaker system, "You're just overthinking it."

He felt himself torn away from his self-deprecating thoughts as he turned away from the wall he had been burning holes into with his staring. He had been on Rannoch for just over a few hours, having hopped through multiple relays to get to Rannoch. The transport he had taken had no Faith-IFF, ensuring the Council could not track him, and that the quarians wouldn't arrest him the moment he stepped off onto the docking ring. Luckily, all had gone smoothly, and the quarian customs (and the marines and geth that acted as security) waved him through after a very vigorous search. Quarian customs was the strictest in the galaxy at the moment, with complaints from tourists galaxy wide regarding randomized strip searches, invasive scanning procedures, finally ending with a thorough and encyclopedically meticulous search through one's history, with everything from social security numbers through one's bloody birth date being researched and studied to the finite detail. The quarians were absolutely paranoid about attacks on their soil, and with Rannoch only recently returning to their possession, they were not about to risk terrorist attacks or allowing undesirables to contaminate their cultural enrichment. Conrad experienced one of these searches first hand...thankfully, no strip search.

"Yeah...probably," he muttered, not at all reassured. He straightened his shirt again, well aware that this was now the fiftieeth time he had done this. It was a nervous tick, and thus not an actual attempt to fix his appearance, which was already as good as it was going to get. His body was looking for any potential way to distract him from what lay ahead.

He was now at the Shepardist headquarters on Rannoch...or at least, their secret HQ. The Samaritan wasn't taking any risks with their Faith, and after the death of a spectre on Illium and likely numerous standing bounties on their heads, it was no small assumption to make that the Council would be informing every existing government to begin crackdowns on their own populations of Shepardists soon. Shepardism was becoming an underground religion, but thankfully, the Samaritan knew where the quarian sect was hiding, and Conrad found it without a problem. Their leader, Nala'Seeram, had been hesitant to allow him to speak to her people at first, but once she learnt he was speaking on behalf of the Samaritan, she had been quick to grant him that audience.

After all, the Samaritan was the conduit for the Crusader's wishes. No one dared question his authority, especially not with Grirbon Krend as his bodyguard and chief enforcer.

He was potentially minutes away from addressing these quarians. He knew failure in this mission was not an option, so he needed to do this right: for the movement. For the Samaritan. For the Crusader. Despite all the speeches he made in the past...most of them had either been written by Jenna, or he had her with him to give him strength and confidence. He could feel anxiety tightening its grip over him, compressing his heart and making his bones feel brittle and ready to snap. He needed Jenna...if not in physical presence, then in verbal accompaniment.

Having Jenna just talking to him was already lowering a blanket over his anxiety and insecurity. She had always had that effect on him: it was the same uncanny ability that had guided him away from his foolish actions of the past, and towards something greater than himself. He may no longer be leader of the Shepardists, and their creed as a whole may have been warped beyond recognition, but if there was something he did believe in, it was the promise the Crusader brought of a renewed tomorrow...a better tomorrow. That alone, with Jenna leading him across the gap, was enough to pull him through. To fail to do so would be a betrayal of everything he had worked for. All his progress so far required him to make the most of it. Not just for this mission, but the one waiting just around the corner...one that not even Jenna could help him with.

 _Worry about that later,_ his thoughts intervened.  _Focus on the task at hand. I was never good at multi-tasking anyway. Finish this, then I'll cross that bridge when I come to it._

He offered a weak, but genuine, smile, straightening his shirt in preparation for the speech he was about to give. The cubicle the congregation was gathering in was small, but quarians obviously didn't care for such small inconveniences and petty trivialities, and were likely packed in like sardines, eager to hear what one of the Samaritan's intermediaries had to say to them. By now, all of them had to have heard about their daring escape on Illium, and the havoc they caused on their way out. They were either frightened, confused or looking for guidance. That, or disenfranchised. After all, these people joined the organizaton during the time Conrad and Jenna had control, and thus likely didn't completely subscribe to the new focus on the Crusader. This was understandable...despite the month that had passed since the mini-coup, the Samaritan's sudden appearance was still taking some getting used to. Most had fallen in line quickly, enjoying the newfound progress and efficiency that the enigmatic figure most promised and delivered. A minority were more skeptical, and needed assurances. Given the quarians and their overly analytical and cautious nature, born from centuries of ostrasization by society, they were going to be far harder to convince. Even more so with the geth, whose logical processes, despite their newfound intelligence, was going to be difficult to overcome. However, the Samaritan was confident Conrad would discover a way to bring them into the fold as well. Even machines could be manipulated.

_Manipulated. Sounds...so dirty. So wrong. Like...we're con artists, not disciples._

Conrad didn't like how it sounded. It didn't sound right. No, they weren't con artists. They were true believers. Conrad just had to find a way to convince the skeptists to leave their doubts behind and follow them along the Crusader's path. And to do that, he needed to give them a reason to cash all their chips in. Such a task required superior intellect and masterful diplomacy...qualities Conrad envisioned the Crusader possessing in abundance, while he was the greater opposite.

_There we go again. The self-doubt. The insecurity. I may have ceased my foolish, infantile activities of the past, but my inability to eliminate that which birthed it means I'll never be truly free of that history. I need to be moving forward, not being trapped in the past. I have a chance to do that...for the Crusader's sake, do not screw this up!_

A lot rode on this. Conrad couldn't tell if his blood pressure spiking was a result of that, or simply a precursor to what lay ahead for him. Either way, he thanked the Crusader that he was granted at least the ability to consult the one person who could help him bite his tongue and force his way through this meandering tunnel of stress. She was his secret weapon. His ace of spades.

"Really Conrad, there's nothing to it. You've done this all before," Jenna stated, once again persisting in her attempts to pummel his anxiety into the furthest corner of his mind, where it wouldn't be the gigantic nuisance it was at this moment. He shot her a look, one that wasn't entirely convinced in her point, but before he could so much as rebutt what she had said, the woman beat him to the punch with a roll of her eyes, "Okay, fine, maybe you've never had to give a speech asking an entire group of people to migrate to another planet, but how hard can it really be? We've already persuaded these people to join our group as is. If they were willing to sign up as a Shepardist in the first place, then chances are they'll come around. All they need is a bit of a prodding and they'll come loose."

"You make it sound easy, Jenna. I'm no diplomat! Shepard's the diplomat!"

"Neither am I, but that's the task we've been given. Even if it is a load of bullshit."

He frowned at that, shocked by Jenna's abrasive attitude towards the topic, "We've been entrusted with an important mission, Jenna. I wouldn't call that 'bullshit'."

"Oh, save me the sermons, Conrad," she dismissively snorted, "You and I both know the Samaritan recruited us for these missions because we'd be far away and out of his way. He's completely taken over the organization. I don't know what his endgame is for us, but since it involves a dead spectre and a whole bunch of angry governments, I can't exactly say I'm assured he means well."

"The Crusader will protect us, Jenna," he returned, "We're all servants of the same person. The Samaritan has his way, we had ours. He's in control now, and we just have to...accept that."

"I know you've accepted it, but..." she sighed, shaking her head, "It doesn't matter. What matters now is that we've got a job to do, and we better do it. If not for the Samaritan, then for our people. He may have taken over, but these people were following us long before he turned up. We'll use what good will we have left to convince them to come with us to Sanctum."

"And...i-if they don't?" he stuttered, trying his best to remain composed.

Jenna couldn't help but grin. Despite how he felt, the sight of that warm, heartfelt look was always enough to push away the insecurity that would often grip Conrad like a sweeping plague, locking him down into a position of indecision, "They will. You're Conrad Verner, the Commander She-...the  _Crusader_ 's biggest fan. Who will they follow, if not you?"

 _She has a point._  He let a nervous laugh escape his lips, trying to fake confidence where he lacked it. Before Jenna could offer more advice however, a voice whispered to her from the left, and she turned back to Conrad with an apologetic look in her eyes, "Listen, Con, my ship just arrived over Cairo. We'll talk more later. Just remember...chin up, eyes up front, and just speak from the heart. I've always told you to do that. Has it ever failed you?"

This time he nodded firmly, full of conviction from the truth behind her words. She never had failed him. Her advice had always prevailed, "No. You're right. I've got this. Thanks, Jenny."

Her smile practically crossed from cheek to cheek, skin flushed bright pink from the radiance of her emotional disposition. It was a little quirk he was quite fond of, "Okay, going now. Love you, Con. Good luck."

"You too, Jenny."

He was once again left alone to the sounds of the heart thumping in his chest, the blood ringing in his ears and his insufferably desiccated lips. He could hear the seemingly distant, albeit proximate, chatter of susurrate voices leaking into the room he was in, the reputability of the quarian communal and collectivist mindset being proven with its actions. In the moment he took to straighten his shirt once more, a deafening hush fell over the crowd, extinguishing all conversation like a cloud of taciturnity was passing over them. Conrad gulped subliminally.

_It's time. This is it. Here I go..._

_Please...oh please don't screw this up..._

_Just remember what Jenna said. She's never let me down before._

From behind the curtain that hid Conrad 'back stage' (it was really just an isolated chamber attached to the same cubicle that allowed for some privacy), a curtain that proudly flashed the colors of a clan he didn't recognize with its whirlwind of crimson ovals imposed on a white sheet, Nala'Seeram, doning the same pattern on her own veil, appeared, eyes shining behind her mask and motioning to outside, "They will hear what you have to say, Mr. Verner."

It was all he could do just to not scream, venting all his rage in one, shrill cry. Instead, he internalized the stress that threatened to overcome him, and straightened his shirt one final time. With a skittish smile and clasped hands, he delivered the most adamantine nod he could levy, and without even a passing glance back at Nala, he stepped through the open curtain, ready to greet his fellow cultists from Rannoch for the first time.

There had to be at least two scores of quarians squeezed into the small chamber, representing the resourceful nature of their species in their ability to cram such a large number of people into a relatively confined space. Even with the Migrant Fleet and its prohibitive conditions gone and dissolved, the quarians still found it difficult to escape old habits. The sight of this suddenly made the room seem that much more claustrophobic, but it was a detail Conrad chose not to concern himself with. Steadying his breathing, he stood on the raised platform that a captain, admiral or Conclave member would usually stand, and cleared his throat, smiling down at the large assortment of multi-coloured quarians all looking up at him, awaiting him to say something. In that moment, he noted how odd it was that there were no geth in the room, but chose, again, not to fixate on it.

_Do what you came here to do. Get it over with. Don't think...just do._

"Friends," he began, staying true to his mental self-advice by not stalling to find something to say, "My name is Conrad Verner. I am... _was_...the leader of our great Faith. As of now, I am here before you as a gesture of good will, done at the Good Samaritan's expense."

" _His_ expense?" one quarian, a female, refuted, offering the first obstacle to Conrad's efforts as she spoke up. She was towards the front, wearing a bright red veil and a tinted, green visor. She glared daggers at the would-be presenter, eying him like one eyed their greatest enemy: with utmost disdain. He didn't know what he had done to earn her ire, but he was sure to suffer as a result of it as the meeting went forward, "What about us? His little stunt on Illium has forced us into hiding. The Council is after us! And from what I hear, for good reason!"

He nodded, choosing to address her directly. He had seen the Samaritan do it during the numerous meetings he'd been privy to, and this appeared to be the prime strategy which he utilized in addressing his opponents. The Samaritan liked to thoroughly dress down each person's arguments, before then going in for the kill and pinpointing the flaws of their arguments and destroying them ruthlessly. He was by no means an expert conversationalist, and many of his policies and methods were crude and brutish, but what the man knew how to do was lead a cult. And if Conrad was ever going to learn how to properly lead people...he needed to take a few pointers. Even if it was from someone who, at least from a competitive standpoint, was his adversary.

He raised his hands steadily, clenching them lightly to ensure nobody noticed how shaky they were. With a lick of his lips, he somehow managed to keep his smile, unmitigated, etched into his face, almost as if the act of feigning confidence was becoming easier, "I misspoke. My apologies, miss...?"

The quarian continued to stare at him blankly, arms crossed. After a second, he realized how stupid he must look, saying 'miss' and then trailing off questioningly. Quarian social cues weren't the same as humans, and he should have known that. Instead, he compensated by rephrasing his statement, "What is your name, miss?"

"Jora'Xera vas Lelazi," she replied with a bite of snark.

"Well, Miss Xera," he continued, "I misspoke. I did not mean to suggest that this gathering was an inconvenience. Quite the opposite. The Good Samaritan sent me as a reassurance that he has not forgotten his followers, even while backed into a hole. As for the Council..." like a switch being flipped, he instantly remembered how the Samaritan had justifed his actions during that fateful final meeting on Illium, and called upon his argument to save his own, "...they are enemies of the Crusader. Their goal is to seperate us. Divide and conquer. They labelled us terrorists because they're afraid of what we can do. Not with guns or money, but with thought."

Emboldened by his first sentence, and noting the silence of the room, including the lack of refutation from Jora, he continued, pacing in an overly twitchy, but enthusiastic, manner that reminded him of his earlier days on the Citadel when he praised Shepard and his actions, just prior to meeting the man himself, "We are blessed with the knowledge that we, and we alone, are carrying on the good fight! The Samaritan only wants what we all want: to spread the Crusader's teachings, and ensure that he has an army for his inevitable return. An army of true, dedicated believers."

"You make it sound like we're going to war," another quarian in the crowd muttered, this one a young male.

He nodded, "We may very well be. The Samaritan has fired the first shot: a Council spectre is dead, yes, but let's not forget the context: the Council sent an assassin to kill the Samaritan. To silence our leader. Why would they do that, if not out of fear? I didn't realize it before, but I do now: the Samaritan was destined to lead us. Think about it: if he were not supposed to lead us, then how is it he was able to overpower one of the finest operatives in the galaxy? The Crusader himself had to e _arn_ the privilege of joining their elite echelon, and yet the Samaritan overpowered one! This can only mean one thing: it was meant to be. The Crusader, whether he knows it or not, has chosen the Samaritan to lead us."

Whispers and mutters passed through the crowd. Jora's stance grew less stubborn and more curious, arms loosening from their crossed posture to rest at her sides, head cocked in thought. Conrad's smile turned from feigned to genuine: he didn't know how, but he was getting to them. The speech he had been so worried about...it was practically flowing from his lips. It was impossible not to become jubilated! Why...why was that?

_Because you actually believe what you're saying._

"Why would the Crusader choose this...Samaritan?" another asked. By now, Nala had joined Conrad on the raised podium, hands clasped behind her back and watching him with rapturous attention. It was clear he was getting to them, "You were our leader. We joined because we followed  _you._ Who is this person and why should we follow him?"

"It is true. I once led this organization, with the help of my friend, Jenna McLean," he admitted, looking at the floor for added strength before breathing in deeply, shaking his head, "When the Samaritan came to us, he had no name, no identity of any sort. He asked to join our cult, and we allowed it. He usurped us...used us to get what he wanted. At least...that's how I initially saw it. But that's not the case. He needed, was fated, to take over. As much as I regret to say it, I was not fit to lead you. The Samaritan has brought much needed vigor, strength and power to our organization, and we have flourished. Yes, the Council is out for us, but that is only proof of our success. You ask if we're at war: the Samaritan believes we are, but its not just any war. Its a war to destroy the Crusader. And as his disciples, we must choose whether or not we allow that to happen. Remember what the Crusader has done for you...all other species can claim that he has touched or helped them in some way, but none can claim such an honor more so than you, the quarian people."

There was no answer to that: it was self-evident. The quarians, and perhaps even the krogan, owed Shepard the most. With the quarians, he helped end a three hundred year-long war in just a few minutes, ended the quarian exile, returned them to their long-awaited homeworld and formed a lasting alliance between them and the very people they once swore to destroy. A human had achieved what three centuries of conflict hadn't. The quarians owed Shepard a debt of eternal gratitude for that action, which is why Shepardism had spread so quickly on Rannoch.

But they weren't completely convinced yet. Jora spoke again, "This Samaritan...what is his name?"

Conrad sighed, shaking his head, "Nobody knows. He does not reveal it. Some believe he has forgotten it...a remnant of a past life that he has forsaken in order to dedicate his new one to the path of the Crusader. Others, like me, believe he is withholding it deliberately for some ulterior purpose. But ultimately it doesn't matter. He has donned the term 'Good Samaritan' because it suits his purpose in life: to enlighten the galaxy to the Crusader's truth, and prepare it for his return. In the end, that's all we, the people he will rule, need to know."

The quarians here were determined to prove the stereotype of their social exuberance. The meeting went on for hours more, and Conrad, despite his overbearing confidence, felt his throat getting dry and mouth sore from the non-stop talking. The quarians had no such hassle, quite content to yap away to their heart's content, their vocal cords and brain having no trouble keeping up with the progressingly contentious and composite nature of their questioning. Answering their questions was like being catechized by forty people: ceaseless probing for information, as it were. The quarian people seemed to have an insatiable curiosity that made even humans frown, their entire race appearing to be gluttons for information and knowledge. It was small wonder that the quarians had once been a principle rival of the salarians: the technological arms race between the Salarian Union and the First Quarian Republic from 500 CE through to the 1800s CE had been tense and very close. The Quarian-Salarian tech race had also produced most of the galaxy's most important inventions, not least among them being the omni-tool, developments in virtual and artificial intelligence, the emergence of the extranet, and so on. While it was ironic that the quarians' superiority in technological mass production was what ultimately led to their downfall in the Geth War (and, subsequently, losing the arms race by default of attrition), it was still something of a marvel in the galaxy today. And with the quarians no longer trapped in exile and now allied with their former synthetic enemy, it looked like they may once again be in the game...and this time, with a significant advantage over their rivals.

After all, the aftermath of any war was devastating. Wars were costly, and the economy paid for it dearly. But after a war like the one that had consumed the entire galaxy, the fate of many governments hung from a very fragile string. One wrong budgetary decision, and an entire government could collapse. A perfect breeding ground for new economies to take their place in the game, and smash their opposition. The galaxy's future was going to look very different indeed.

After six, very long hours, the quarians appeared to finally be done with their interrogation. Nala herself finally stemmed the tide of questions, noticing Conrad's very increasing exhaustion. Her look seemed almost amused, and Conrad could imagine the quarian's thoughts just by looking at the narrowed slits that represented her eyes behind the mask.

_"Such a fragile human. A few hours of conversation, and he's exhausted." Must be real funny to a race that doesn't appear to understand the concept of fatigue._

Whatever the case...it was over. Nala informed her people, who were in agreeance, that they would begin to take the earliest transports back to Omega as soon as they could. Conrad directed them to see a man named 'Everest Shaw', an alias used by one of the Shepardists that the Good Samaritan had entrusted to oversee the cultists moving to make their new home on Sanctum and the surrounding planets. With his job complete, and the Rannochian cell secure and on their way to safety, Conrad took a second to take a deep breath the moment he was outside the cubicle, taking a strange comfort in the piercing blast of UV rays that assaulted him the moment he stepped out. He almost kneeled over, hands braced against his knees as he felt himself begin to shake. He knew what was coming.

His next action was involuntary, but expected. He gagged, the overwhelming amount of anxiety that he had boxed in under a veneer of confidence beginning to break through the four walls of his mental prison, surging through his body and trapping him in a somewhat catatonic state. The volume of stress made him feel ill, and his body, believing itself to be nauseous, tried to vomit up whatever he had eaten...which wasn't much. The feeling was painful, but he waited it out, and once his body got the hint, the gagging stopped, replaced by a violent amount of shaking that would have anyone else thinking Conrad was having a seizure. Annoyed by his fidgeting, he snatched the wrist of his hand, tightening his grip in an effort to stop it from shaking and to steady his breathing.

It took him a few minutes, but he finally managed to steady himself, recovering from his explosion of disquietude. Luckily, most of the quarian cultists were still inside, and their hideout was isolated from the rest of El'Tivv, allowing him to maintain a low profile and stay unseen. His episode, as such, went completely unnoticed, using his wrist to wipe his lips and chin of any dribble and flem that had been disgorged from his mouth. With a shuddering pant, he wiped his forehead of the beads of sweat that were beginning to collect there, his shirt tightly clining to his back as it became soaked.

It was done. His primary objective was complete. A part of him couldn't believe he had done it. That he had survived, and succeeded. No doubt the Samaritan would be impressed and elated by his progress, ensuring that their congregants would remain safe and would be snatched from the jaws of oppression that their governments had in store for them.

But despite his apparent urge to contact Jenna to savor this success...despite wanting to pack his things and go with them back to Sanctum, he knew his task wasn't over. The hard part was over, that much was true, but he had only succeeded in completing one objective of a larger mission. While Jenna and the other missionaries were instructed purely to advise and relocate their respective planets' Shepardist congregants, the planet Conrad was on was of special significance to the Faith. This planet held the one person who tied it all together...who galvanized their movement and energized them to rise above their station.

Rannoch was the place, for whatever reason, that the Crusader had chosen to be his home. And it was Conrad's mission to not only meet with him, but to inform him of the Faith's rejuvenated impetus. To let him know that his people, his followers, were going strong and had not been silenced or defeated, and awaited his return to the fold.

This was the objective Conrad was the most concerned about. The Samaritan had seen something in him...he didn't know what it was, but he had apparently seen enough to entrust him with the task of making this happen. It wasn't everyday a religious organization's rank-and-file peons were tasked with speaking directly to their idol of worship, but it had come to pass and now here he was. The Samaritan had somehow learned the location of the Crusader's place of residence on Rannoch, and Conrad now possessed the coordinates as well.

Conrad was lost in thought. So lost, in fact, that he lost track of all time as he somehow made it to a skycar, got in the air and began approaching the coordinates given to him. Any indication that he was focused on the present moment was gone to the wind, replaced by a lone human piloting a skycar across the recently reclaimed Rannochian savannahs, racing at over a hundred kilometers per hour through the air as he neared his destination. He had long since set the vehicle on autopilot, worried that his shaking hands could cause him to crash the aircraft. He was simply too distracted...allowing his ruminations to go off on a tangent and pull up beliefs he had long since tried to bury in an effort to accept his new position in life.

He was beginning to wonder just what angle the Good Samaritan really had in all of this. While he believed the man truly wanted to follow and obey the Crusader's wishes, it was unknown to him just how or why he was doing so. He had no name, or at least not one he wished to divulge, and his actions had been drastically aggressive, to the point of inciting conflict. The murder of a Council spectre, while justified as self defense, had seemed more like a justification for escalation, rather than a genuine attempt to protect his people. This man was planning something...what it was, he wasn't sure. Nobody was. Even Jenna was beginning to get worried. The Samaritan had won over their people through hard action and results. The Shepardists had gone from a congregation of a few hundred followers, scattered across numerous planets, and exploded into a galactic movement with thousands of believers, enough funding to crew a militia, and a fleet of ships that could be used for transport throughout the galaxy. What was all this for? Why the secrecy...why the deliberate antagonization of the Citadel Council?

There was a game being played, and Conrad, and by the same extent Jenna, were clueless as to what its goal was.

Conrad had blindly accepted the Samaritan at first. In a way, he still did follow the man with a modicum of loyalty. The resentment still lingered, but his loyalty kept it back. But now...he wasn't so sure. Big plays were being made, and finally reaching out to the Crusader seemed like a move the Samaritan had been calculating for a few weeks now...

Jenna had a theory the Samaritan had planned it all. Council retaliation. The move to Sanctum. Recalling their people. Conrad had failed to see the dots being connected, but Jenna hadn't. She knew what was happening. Consolidation of power. Deployment of assets. Outreach to key players. Eliminating threats. The pattern of decision was there, and no one was seeing it but Jenna.

_What is he playing at? What's the point of this? And what's his stake in it all? Who is he and why is he doing any of this?_

The Samaritan was a complete enigma. Every facet of his identity, his existence was a colossal unknown. The Faith's leader might as well have been a ghost. A disembodied essence that was commanding them from the umbra. Whatever his grand design was, the nature of his larger picture...they were not privy to it, and Conrad had a feeling they wouldn't be until the day of judgement arrived. Jenna was convinced they were being played. Conrad was beginning to see why.

But...if there was one thing they both believed, it was the Crusader. And whether or not they disliked the Samaritan, they both knew he only did it ostensibly in service to the Crusader's ordinance. The galaxy was in short supply of principled, incorruptible figures...and they desperately needed one to lead them. The Council, and the galaxy's other governments, were too weak to do so. They didn't have what it took to stop the Reapers before, and it took the Crusader's leadership to secure their crushing victory. The moment he left, chaos returned. The answer to their social and political problem was obvious: the governments needed to go, and the Crusader needed to replace them. To lead a crusade to purge the constituents of the galactic bangarang, to reverse the course of their ensuing entropy, and to place himself at the top, leader for life, to ensure corruption and deceit could never bring this galaxy to its knees ever again.

The first step was to convince the Crusader this could be done. And before this could be done, he had to be brought back to the fray. He needed to know his followers were strong and waiting for him.

In the end...Conrad's history with him might just be why he was chosen for this mission. A familiar face for a difficult task.

An hour passed, and he finally could see the house he was looking for in the distance. The large, two-storey mansion-esque building stood out like a sore thumb in the vast expanse of nothingness that surrounded it...like a slice of civilization that had been cut and taken away from the rest to maintain its vigil alone. The design was definitely human, which only served to confirm that the Crusader had taken up residence here.

There was a large patch of land right infront of the house, with barely a scrap of vegetation or other natural obstructions to make it hazardous for parking, so he saw fit to land the skycar perpendicular to the house, just fifty meters from the front, and he switched off the engines. Stepping out of the car, he felt his boots crunch the soft soil underneath, and the hard sun on the back of his neck. He had to squint as he looked up at the elephantine house, the design intricacies and apparent care put into its construction leaving him awed. Whoever built this building had put a lot of effort into it.

_But why? Why would the Crusader want to build a house on a recently reclaimed, non-human world, way out in the middle of nowhere, seperated from everyone else? Was it for the peace and quiet? Buyer's market? From the sounds of it, he has a great view of the ocean. Maybe its a holiday house?_

The Crusader's exact reasonings for being here were a mystery to him. In the brief snippets of time that Conrad had encountered and talked with the man, nothing of depth or meaning was ever learnt about his life or personality. After all, he had always caught the commander during important business, meaning he was never in a position of being relaxed enough to talk. Not to mention many of those predicaments ended with him being annoyed with Conrad...understandably. Its not like he hadn't noticed...he had gone out of his way to impress upon him that he wished to fix his mistakes, but he just ended up making new ones as a result. It had taken Jenna to break that cycle, but since then, he hadn't encountered him. This would be the first time since that day that Conrad would speak to him face-to-face, and he had no idea what to expect. Thus, the man's reasons for living here failed to make themselves known to Conrad. He didn't know the man anywhere near as well as he wished he could have, so this meeting was going to be...interesting, to say the least.

Nervousness wracked his frame as the exact nature of what he was about to tried to overcome him. He quelled it, forcing it back down and taking a deep breath. Avoiding the urge to bring up his omni-tool and call up Jenna for advice and emotional support, he clenched his fists and slowly, but confidently, approached the front door, his boots creaking on the wooden steps leading up to the veranda as he did so.

 _You've spoken with him before. It shouldn't be any surprise as to what comes next. Just...do what the Samaritan asked you to do. Tell him what he needs to know, and then leave. He knows you. I did save his life once...admittedly, I thought I was sacrificing myself when in reality I wasn't, but the thought should count over the events. I_ _**believed** _ _I was taking a bullet meant for him. If that doesn't earn at least five minutes of his time, I don't know what will. He'll listen._

Advancing up the steps cautiously, almost as if he was expecting somebody to leap out and attack him at any moment, he eventually reached the front door. Conrad was surprised by the rather rudimentary configuration of the door's lock mechanism, which looked to use the archaic manual knob over the more ultra-modern, motion sensing haptic interfaces of today's sphere. As anachronistic as it looked, Conrad found himself impressed by this choice. He was fascinated by pre-spacelight human civilization, and he had never really seen a manual swing door before in his life. Perhaps the Crusader was sentimental?

He hadn't even entered the house yet, and he felt like he was already learning new things about his hero figure just by the type of door he used.

He couldn't see much through the upper glass component of the frame itself: it was frosted glass, intentionally eliminating transparency and increasing privacy. Giving up on attempting to see if anybody was home, he took a deep breath, steeled himself as best he could, and allowed his fist to lightly tap against the wooden frame four times.

He waited patiently, not allowing himself to make too much noise as his brain, in its paranoia, believed this would compromise him. Instead, he allowed himself a silent lick of the lips, his hand to rise and scratch away an itch developing on his neck, and a chance to straighten his shirt one more time: a tick that was beginning to infuriate him with its annoying tendency to crop up at the worst of times. It seemed like a bad omen. Yet again, he hadn't screwed up so far, so perhaps his luck was holding out.

With this in mind, he held out, despite the compressing feeling of feeling trapped and alone.

And, sure enough, his patience was rewarded. The sound of footsteps, lightly gliding across a lustrous fraserwood floor, could be heard approaching the door from the inside.

Conrad straightened up upon hearing it. He could have sworn he heard a voice, but he couldn't be certain what it was saying or if he had really heard it at all. However, the footsteps were very real, and he could see the dark silhouette of a person just behind the door. He frowned, noting just how much shorter the Crusader looked in stature, and the frosted glass seemed to give the impression of a slim, petite figure. Almost as if they-

The door swings, pulled open from the inside. Conrad opens his mouth in greeting, only to find the smile he had been forming would be taking its leave, replaced by wide eyes and a baffled frown.

Standing in the door, holding the door open, was not Commander Shepard, the Crusader. In fact, they weren't even human. A quarian woman, draped in a purple veil with dazzling pattern of swirls with ivory stripes down her hood, stood before him. Her matching amethyst-coloured mask reflected the sun off of it, further obscuring the face underneath, if he could even see it to begin with. A few seconds of silence passed between the two, equally puzzled figures, until it finally clicked in Conrad's mind who this was. How could he not know? He had seen the vids often enough, come across the Crusader and his squad one too many times...

Tali'Zorah.

...only question was: what was she doing here?

_Perhaps a friend visiting a friend? Yeah, that's probably all it is...all that really makes sense in this-_

"Um...hello? Who are you?"

_Oh, of course. Just standing here, looking dumbly at her, probably doesn't help the situation. Best to find out what's going on. The Crusader is definitely here...the Samaritan confirmed that much. Get straight to business. She probably doesn't even remember me, really._

"Oh, um...right..." he coughed, clearing his throat as the quarian war hero awaited his answer, "My...my name is Conrad Verner. You probably don't even remember me."

A few seconds passed, before the quarian's eyes widened, apparently remembering him after all, "Yes...I know you. You're one of Jo-Shepard's biggest fans." Her tone sounded less sure of itself towards the end...almost as if she was piecing together something. She lowered her head for a moment, contemplating this.

"Yes!" he nearly shouted with joyous gaiety, "And its such a privilege to finally meet you, Miss Zorah. I've always wanted to talk to one of the most famous members of the Crusader's squad!"

"Well, I...uh...thanks," she replied with a poorly contained amount of embarassment, but after a moment, the quarian seemed to recover from this, looked directly up at him, and narrowed her eyes, "Wait...Crusader?"

The blood practically drained from Conrad's face as he realized his mistake.  _Oh no, she didn't like that. Damn it, Shepard! His NAME is COMMANDER SHEPARD. How could I have screwed that up!?_

His lack of an answer was all she needed, "Look, I don't even know how you got this address, but I think you need to leave."

The window for his opportunity was beginning to close dangerously fast. His verbal slip-up was likely going to cost him if he didn't act quickly, so act he did. Without even thinking, he reached forward and shot out his arm, hand impacting the door and stopping it as the admiral tried to close it. This action visibly shocked her, but she reacted quickly, eyes turning into dangerous slits as she eyed him with malicious intent. Any friendliness in her voice was now gone, "Mr. Verner, I'm afraid that if you don't remove your hand from that door, I'm going to be less than gracious."

He believed it. Despite her slim and relatively fragile-looking frame, Conrad had seen the vids and knew she was a deadly combatant. She could probably hack his omni-tool in the time it took for him to blink at her and turn it into a fire cracker by melting the CPU with a flash overclock program. She could probably break his arm in several different places. And if the rumors were true, quarian legs were much more powerful than they looked: like the kangarooes and horses of Earth, a kick from one of their legs could shatter ribs. One wrong move...and he was sure he'd pay for it.

He gulped, holding up his other hand placatingly, "L-l-look...I'm...I'm a friend of Shepard's! He knows me! I just want to talk to him, say hello..."

"I know who you are," she stated simply, any prior cordiality she had for him now completely gone as she assessed what was, to her, a potential threat, "You called him 'the Crusader'. Only Shepardists do that. What your people have done...how did you even get this address? Have you been stalking us?"

"Stalking  _us_?" Conrad asked incredulously, mouth opening and closing as he tried to find an adequate response, "What...no! Why would we stalk you? We follow the Crusader, not-"

"Don't play coy," she snapped, "You found this house. I don't know how, but you did. If your cult has those kind of resources, then you most certainly know that I live here."

_She...lives here? But why would she-_

_Ooooohhhhh...NOW it makes sense. Choosing to live on Rannoch, one of his quarian squadmates living at his house...they're not just friends..._

The look of realization on his face must have been dreadfully hidden, because the look of adamant hostility in her posture loosened upon seeing it. Her eyes softened a bit, but not completely, and she shook her head. Motioning for him to move back, he did so, watching as she walked forward and out onto the porch with him, closing the front door behind her...not wanting the Crusa-for  _Shepard_ to hear what they were talking about.

"Look, listen and don't say a word," she began firmly, her arms crossed, "I don't care why you're here. I'm curious to know how you learned where this house was, but as long as you leave and tell your boss never to come here again, I won't make a fuss of it. Neither you or your people are to come near us again. We've been through enough."

Against his better judgment, despite all the alarm bells going off in his head telling him he needed to heed her wishes and leave, he stubbornly pushed on, "I just want to speak with him for a few minutes...I promise it won't be any longer than that. The Samaritan just wants me to convey-"

"You're not listening...or perhaps I'm not being clear enough," her voice took on a precariously new low, the quarian stepping forward to get closer to him, her tone a vehement hiss, "He wants nothing to do with you. He never has, and he never will. He doesn't condone or accept your little religion, he won't encourage your proselytizing, and he will not enable you or anyone else to commit crimes in his name. All he wants, all  _we_ want, is to be left alone."

He sighed heavily, scratching his chin. What she said...couldn't be true. It couldn't be. It was a lie...organized by the quarian in order to keep him away from the Crusader. That's the only thing that made sense. Why else would she say such things? To tell him that the Crusader has no interest in saving the galaxy?

Pushing on with the belief that Tali was lying to him in an effort to shield the Crusader from the truth, he crossed his own arms, "No, I don't believe that. And its true...then...y-you won't mind me speaking to him!"

"I will  _not_ allow you to waste his time with your nonsense."

"That's for  _him_  to decide, not you!" he shouted, surprised by his own audacity. Something in him had snapped, the part that refused to be fooled into believing the quarian's narrative, and he had felt the need to bludgeon past her arrogance with his own conviction. How far did the lie stretch? Perhaps the quarian wasn't living with him, or in a relationship with him...perhaps it was an elaborate story to convince Conrad to go away, to accept her word as the Crusader's. Perhaps she was, indeed, lying.

Tali didn't respond to this verbally. She simply stood there, watching him like one watches the dissection of a rodent...carefully and precisely. At first, her silence seemed deafening, a pregnant pause that dragged on without any further reaction from opposite side, thus churning up no progress. He was about ready to shout at her, to clear the air and provoke a reaction from her, when he heard a low growl.

He froze, finding himself turning to look down slowly as something edged past his leg. Cold, scaly skin brushed past the soft fabric of his pants, but was enough for him to take notice. Looking down, he watched as the huge, four-legged form of a varren stalked past him, tail whipping through the air. The varren's head never turned away from Conrad, glinting canines dripping with saliva and big, alien eyes sizing him up...whether as a meal or a threat, he couldn't be sure.

Conrad was terrified of varren. Unlike dogs on Earth, these creatures had nearly twice the mass, triple the appetite, and were infamously difficult to tame and domesticate. However, it was also a well known fact that such creatures had originated on Tuchanka. While they had spread, none had ever reached as far as the Perseus Veil, so how one ended up on Rannoch had to be a-

"No Urz, don't hurt him. Come here, Urz."

Imagine his shock when Tali, clicking her fingers invitingly, beckoned to the varren, calling it by name. He was even further stupefied when the varren actually responded to her summons, its growling giving way to what sounded like a purr, the creature marching up to where Tali stood, sitting down and closing its mouth as she reached down and began to rub the top of its head. He looked up at her, the quarian's head cocked to the side. Not in amusement, but recognition of his surprise.

"Urz won't hurt you," she elaborated, "And I won't let him. I have no intention of hurting you. But if you threaten John...if you become a threat to what we're trying to build...then, despite how demure I might seem...I will not hesitate to kill you. I will not tolerate any threats to my  _neh'sah_ , do you understand?"

"If your varren won't hurt me," he continued, holding up his hands placatingly, mostly to show he wasn't going to make any sudden moves, "Then why was he growling?"

"He can sense my irritation," she explained simply, "As far fetched as it seems, varren form bonds with their owners over time. Urz can sense my irritation, and is getting defensive. But," she scratched Urz just behind his head spike, causing the varren to perk up and lick her gloved hand in gratitude, "I think he's accepted you're not a threat. They may look stupid, but varren are incredibly intelligent. But enough about Urz, let's talk about you. You're going to leave.  _Now_."

A few moments passed, the man considering his position. A potentially dangerous varren at arm's length, an angry quarian female who was decidedly very hostile towards him. But despite that, and his perfectly rational fear of varren, his response shocked even him.

"No, I won't go. Not until I speak to him."

"I've made it very clear-"

"I don't care!" he snapped, the sound alerting the varren and causing him to stand to attention, eyes locking onto Conrad immediately. He raised his arm, pointing directly at her, "You...y-you don't get to speak for him! I...have been chosen...to speak with the Crusader, and that...is exactly what I'll do! You can't st...stop me!"

"Conrad?"

This time, both parties were surprised as their heads whipped around to face the front door, turning to face the new addition to the conversation. Conrad felt his breath catch in his throat as he saw the man framed by the doorway. Thickset body, scars lining the sides of his face, heavy stubble beginning to build along his jaw, intimidating and authoritative presence...yes, it could only be one man.

The Crusader.

"He was just leaving, John," Tali assured him, her voice now suddenly more worried. What for, however, Conrad couldn't be sure. What exactly had her so spooked?

He waved a dismissive hand, walking through the doorway, albeit with some difficulty. He looked to have a limp in his right leg, but to what extent, he couldn't tell. Was it some kind of battlefield injury he had accrued? From the looks of how Tali was eying him, the quarian moving to help him, only to be held off by Shepard as held out his hand to hold her back. Urz immediately rushed up to Shepard, standing up on both of his back legs to excitedly bark at Shepard. The former commander grinned, rubbing Urz's head before shrugging him off and turning back to Conrad, his grin disappearing after a moment.

"Conrad...what are you doing here? How did you even find me?"

The tone sounded almost accusatory, but Conrad brushed it off for now. He concentrated on what he had: Tali had failed to keep the Crusader from him, and with him now addressing the man directly, Conrad had a chance to complete his mission...and finally get the Crusader to precipitate his own return.

"The Samaritan told me," Conrad admitted, turning to focus his full attention on Shepard, "I'm here to speak with you, personally."

"He's with the cult, John," Tali piped up, immediately grabbing Shepard's attention. He turned to her, before craning his head slowly to face Conrad again, his posture tensing up. Before Conrad could so much as speak another word, Shepard shook his head disapprovingly. Urz sensed his emotions and began to growl at him again, only for Shepard to grab him by the scruff of the neck, calming him with a few light scratches along his back, which had the effect of immediately calming the beast.

"I think I know where this is going Conrad, so let me make this simple," he began, his tone causing his blood to run cold. Clearly, Shepard wasn't in a good mood, "I don't know how you got mixed up with that crowd, but don't even think of asking me to condone it. As Tali here has probably already made clear, I do not want anything to do with you or your people. The attempted assassinations and the murder of a Council spectre are, quite frankly, unacceptable crimes. You're a decent man, Conrad. Whatever my thoughts on you, I thought you should know that. But that doesn't mean I'm going to excuse this. You've picked a side...and its the wrong one."

"Side?" Conrad queried weakly, taken aback by the Crusader's blase dismissal of him and the organization. This was not the reaction he had been expecting at all, and he found himself at a loss for words, unable to press on or form a counter-argument. He had thought Shepard might give him time to explain his position...but it was almost as if the moment he heard the term 'cult' mentioned, he had shut down and refused to give him the time of day.

"Yes, Conrad," he continued, waving a dismissive hand, "This Good Samaritan...I don't care who he is, or what authority he thinks he has to murder Council operatives and believe he can get away with it. I certainly don't like the Council or half of what they do, but if you think I'm going to side with your cult simply because of that, then the Samaritan has lost his mind. I expected better from you, of all people."

"But we  _need_ you..." he pleaded. Lost and not knowing what else to do, he could only form ragtag words together in the futile action of forming sentences, "You're the Crusader...the iron hand...you're supposed to rule the galaxy, purge it of the corrupt..."

The look Shepard had looked haunted, like he had just gazed into the devil's eyes and seen hell on the other side. Dazed, his glazzed look dissipated when he finally shook his head in disbelief, "The Samaritan has you believing a lie. I cannot abide by what you do. I refuse. I have a life outside of the military now, and I most certainly will not throw away everything I've worked for just to entertain some cult leader's religious fanaticism. I'm not a crusader, and I never will be. You need to stop this, Conrad. You need to go home and rethink what you're doing. Do you really want to be involved with these people?"

He barely heard the man's words. All he could hear, a constant echo in his mind, was that fateful dismissal of everything Conrad had come to believe about the man, "But you're supposed to save us all...you're the savior of the galaxy..."

Shepard sighed, mouth open in anticipation to form another argument, but then closed shortly afterwards, ostensibly because he realized there was no way he could reason with him. Finally, he just exhaled deeply, turned away and moved to walk back inside, "Please go, Conrad. Leave me in peace. I've had enough of war. Don't bring the promise of more to my doorstep and ask me to jump in head first."

He could only watch as the man he had come to know as the Crusader, the Savior of the Galaxy, Hero of the Citadel and Lion of Elysium, limped back inside, turning his back on his call to duty, walking out of view as he left the door ajar in his wake, barely even giving Conrad a second look. He just continued to stare at that empty space, his mind ticking over as it considered the consequences of the ultimatum he had just been given.

_The Crusader...has abandoned us._

Given his catatonic state, vision becoming blurred as he zoned in and out, he barely heard nor noticed when Tali walked up to him, gripped his shoulder with one hand and looked directly at him, her tone molten steel, "Now that John has made his peace, I will too. He knows and likes you, which is the only reason he isn't going in there and having the marines come here and arrest you. The only reason I'm not going to do it is because I trust his judgment. But allow me to be perfectly clear: if I see you or any more of your cultists come to this home again, you will have  _me_ to answer to. I meant what I said about threats: ancestors know I love that man, so if I believe your presence will upset him or put him in danger...I will crack down on you like a mother  _tilgrap_. Now leave. Leave us in peace. That's all we ask."

He had heard every word, but barely offered a rebuke. As such, he didn't even pay her one bit of attention as she moved to join Shepard inside, Urz jogging after her, the door closing behind her, the locks engaging not long afterwards.

When Conrad finally regained control of his senses after a few seconds, and walked down the steps in a nearly zombie-like fashion, making a beeline for his skycar. Once inside, all he could do was sit down and stare blankly at the dashboard, wondering just what had gone wrong.

But there hadn't been anything that went wrong. That was just it. It wasn't Conrad's fault. The problem was more grounded...in the end, it had been the Crusader himself who rejected him.

_The Crusader...refuses to return. To acknowledge his disciples. He thinks we're criminals. Once he learned I followed the Samaritan's teachings, he practically couldn't look at me. He's ashamed of us. He hates us and what we do. And that quarian...Miss Zorah...she was trying to shield him from me. Is he...afraid of us? Have we erred?_

He quietly started up the vehicle, lifting it off the ground as he engaged the autopilot, lounging back in his seat as the vehicle took him back to the capital city. There had been numerous outcomes Conrad had expected to emerge from that fateful meeting, but rejection...that was a brutal shock. Everything he had come to believe...was upturned in that moment. The Samaritan had promised the Crusader would rise to the challenge, accept his followers as his own brothers and sister-in-arms and lead them to a glorious tomorrow.

The Samaritan was wrong. The Crusader had seen them...and was disgusted. He would not return. He would not lead the crusade. He would not spearhead their vanguard. He would stand aside...and do nothing.

Nothing.

* * *

 _CSS Normandy SR-2, en route to the Citadel - January 18, 2188 - The next day_.

The Samaritan had officially proven that there were no limits to his insanity.

The news had only come through official channels two hours ago, whilst the  _Normandy_ was on its way back to the Citadel, but scuttlebutt throughout the ship was that the information had been spreading through the extranet like wildfire. Soon, every corner of the galaxy would be aware of what happened.

Ka'hairal Balak, supreme commander of the Batarian Defense Force and spokesperson for the 'Glorious Batarian Resurgence', was dead. His adjutant, too. Both of them found murdered in a grotesque fashion: Balak's body hanging from the roof of his house, flayed down to the muscle, while the adjutant's body lay on the ground, mauled to death by a hundred or so stabbings. Only a few minutes after the brutal murder, an anonymous poster on the extranet, known only by the name of 'the Collector', took responsibility for the killings, proclaiming them to be the first strike in a great 'slave revolution' that would topple the batarian establishment and destroy the Hegemony. When asked by the Salarian Union as to what this means, the Batarian Hegemony responded in its usual fashion: mind your own business. We'll handle it.

And what a grand job they did.

Of course, the Council chose to remain neutral in what was purely a 'batarian issue', and didn't lift a finger to assist the Hegemony in finding the culprit. Behind closed doors, the Alliance's SIA and the Union's STG were probably glad to wash their hands of the matter, as both had been hunting Balak for some time, given the numerous war crimes he had committed, the colonies he had enslaved and the ceaseless organic rights violations. Knowing that some slave had taken care of it for them meant they could now put the matter to rest. One would have thought the matter ended there.

Until the next day...when the Collector popped up again, this time taking responsibility for the murder of several undercover batarian  _Feksogar_  agents in a bar in Khar'Shan's capital, Kepcedah. This time however, the Collector proudly announced that he had help from a third party, a party that supported and financed the Collector's efforts, and thus was bankrolling the very people that the Hegemony had deemed to be fugitives and enemies of the state. Imagine Garrus' surprise at who it was that had chosen to help the Collector.

The Good Samaritan.

At first, this had been a batarian problem. But once the Good Samaritan's name was dropped, it became a political quagmire. Intelligence channels lit up as the STG and SIA began inquiring with the SIU as to what they knew about the Samaritan's involvement, and to what level. A Council spectre was dispatched, at the Supreme Regent's reluctance, to Khar'Shan to coordinate with the batarian authorities. A 'purely batarian matter' became an interstellar, joint-national manhunt to find and apprehend the Collector and his Shepardist fiscal interests. The implications here were serious: before, the Good Samaritan had attempted, but failed, to have a salarian politician assassinated. This time, he not only succeeded, but was now directly financing what, according to the batarians, amounted to terrorism.

The Shepardists were now officially financiers of terrorism. And that went beyond raising red flags from the Citadel to Rannoch: it became a galactic security concern.

Garrus should have felt angry that the Council had waited so long to officially reach out to him. After all,  _his_ team had been the one tasked with apprehending the Samaritan, so it seemed only fair to keep him in the loop. Instead, the Council's insistence on keeping things hush-hush had exploded in their face, and they were now doing damage control to try and contain the situation, and hopefully mute any evidence that they had not only known about the threat, but had kept it largely secret from the public. Why they simply didn't use the QEC for mission critical intel was a puzzle to him: perhaps they were so paranoid at this point that they actually believed that the most unhacklable, unbreakable piece of communications tech the galaxy had at the moment wasn't as infallible as they suggested. Figures.

But no...Garrus wasn't angry at them. At least not as much as he should be. His anger was aimed towards an entirely different person. A person that could have stopped this from happening, but was currently choosing to do nothing. The one man who had unintentionally inspired what-was-now a terrorist organization to be created. A man he admired, respected and considered his best friend.

Which was why he was currently storming out of the war room, ignoring everybody around him, even those trying to speak to him, as he headed for his cabin, eager to get in contact with the very person who had vexxed him and give him a piece of his mind.

_I've tried being patient. I've tried letting him think it through. We waited, and now it has gotten worse. I told him it would. He didn't listen, and now here we are. Well...I've had enough of it. I'm sick of this. Somebody needs to wake him up and get him to open his damn eyes. If nobody else will do it...if Tali won't...then I will. No more waiting. I'm done just sitting by and letting this happen._

Garrus didn't think he had felt this angry since he learned about his mother's death during the war. Even now, he still grieved in his own way, but kept it back. That's how he had always dealt with family matters: by repressing them. He hadn't seen much of his father or sister since his mother's funeral, and while he had promised to keep in contact, he had only sent the occasional message over extranet. He didn't have it in him to go see them...to face their frustration with him. His estranged family had always been annoyed with him for barely giving them the time of day, especially after Garrus quit C-Sec four years ago. One day he would make it up to them...but not today. Likely not even for a while.

Point was...he was pissed. Absolutely livid. Perhaps his actions were driven purely by frustration with their predicament, but the underlying anger was still there. He had tried his best to go along with it, to understand his friend's reasons for not wanting to get involved...but this was too much. Every minute he spent on the sidelines was another given to the Samaritan to continue...whatever it was the man was doing or planning. Shepard had always lectured him about needing to act...that some issues required less thought or more immediate action. Right now, those words sounded like hypocrisy.

He was simply too incensed to think about what he was about to do. He had been driven past the edge. Storming past the security post, ignoring the objections of the crewmen manning it, he rounded the corner and stepped into the elevator, tapping the selector for Deck 1. His body bristled as he waited, talons clenched and a low, vibrating growl eminating from the back of his throat, done at a pitch that only turians would be able to detect immediately. All the warning signs of a turian about to lash out could be seen on Garrus' form and in his expression.

He wasn't quite sure what he was going to say when he confronted Shepard...and that knowledge worried him. Shepard and Garrus were like brothers, but that relationship came with the recognition that in order to maintain that exceedingly high level of friendship, issues such as these would have to be dealt with harshly. The more difficult part of being friends, the part that many didn't like having to confront, was that arguments were often necessary, especially if, in order to protect your friend, you have to knock their head around a little.

It wasn't long before the elevator had reached Deck 1, and he was rushing into his cabin. He tapped the haptic interface to open the door, only to sigh in aggravation as the decontamination sequence engaged, cleansing his room of harmful bacteria and sterilizing it. The decon suite was a remnant of Shepard's time in command of the  _Normandy_ : an installation made when Tali also lived in the cabin, and needed it for...well, one can surmize on their own. Needless to say, with the two of them living on Rannoch, and Kasumi not only not trapped in a suit, but also very much not living in the cabin with him (she preferred her own private space), the decon suite was more of a nuisance now...he was annoyed that he kept forgetting to have it removed.

Or perhaps he wasn't forgetting? Perhaps it was his mind telling him to leave it there, the last momento from the people who once lived there.

Regardless, it was beginning to grate on his nerves, and if it wasn't for its timely completion, he may have punched a wall. Or wasted EDI's time in overriding it. In retrospect...he probably should have just done that. Guess he was too inflamed to think straight, the state of his ruminations so murky that comprehensive reasoning was taking the back burner at that current moment.

After what seemed like an insufferably long timespan, the decon sequence completed, the turian passing through the door before it had even finished opening. He homed in on his desk like a  _shatha_ lunging at its unsuspecting prey, dropping into his seat and starting up his terminal. In moments, he had Shepard's contact primed and ready to initiate a call, a talon hesitating to press the key. He temporarily reconsidered halting himself, the more advised part of him revising whether he should calm down first. His finger even began moving away in preparation to do just that.

But his choler would not have any of it. Plus, another motivation drove him to begin the exchange...one that he hated having to acknowledge, but was nonetheless a paramount concern of his. So, in the end, his priorities won out, and he hit the key, watching as the terminal began to hail Shepard's end. He sat there, waiting, one talon tapping quietly on his right leg, trying to calm himself. He managed to mitigate some of his temper, but not all of it...he just hoped he could rein in the urge to vent at Shepard the moment the connection was established. He needed to be better than that.

It took longer than usual for Shepard to answer the call, but he eventually did. Luckily for Garrus, he had managed to nail the time zones correctly this time around, so Shepard didn't look like he had just crawled out of bed. He looked good actually: combed hair, heavier but trimmed stubble, and an overall clean look. Certainly much better than he had seen the man in ages. Most of the time, he was used to see him covered head-to-toe in armor, caked in blood and guts, or carrying the same, anguished expression that he had throughout the entire Reaper War. Wtih the weight of managing an entire galactic war effort lifted off his shoulders, he looked good as new. It was a good look for him.

But even that wouldn't temper Garrus' frustration, although he managed to keep back from immediately biting the man's head off.

"Hey Garrus, nice to hear from you," he greeted, a wide smile ennobling his face, "You got the time zone right this time. You  _are_ capable of learning."

"Yeah," he chuckled, shaking his head. He wanted to retain his built-up anger, but found himself unable to keep it from simmering away. While still there, he was no longer as annoyed as he had started out...which was probably for the best, especially if it made this conversation a little bit less confrontational.

Shepard wasn't stupid, not by any stretch of the imagination, and he was able to figure out something was wrong almost immediately upon hearing Garrus' lackluster response. He was used to his turian friend responding with an equally witty comeback. He frowned, his smile dimming somewhat, "Something the matter, Garrus?"

Breathing in deeply, he rapped his talons along the desk's edge a few more times before nodding, "Yes, Shepard, there is. The Samaritan has struck again."

Whatever hospitable emotions had been present in their conversation now evaporated completely as Shepard adopted a serious expression, sitting up straighter at his own desk on Rannoch, "I assume his plan was foiled again?"

Garrus stared at him for a long, drawn out few seconds, "No. He was successful."

"Who..." he began, scratching his jaw, "...who was the victim?"

"Well..." he leaned forward, placing his arms firmly ontop of the desk in support of his weight, "...I'd strain to call them a victim, but since you asked...Balak. The 'victim' was Balak."

Shepard was flabbergasted, "Out of all the people to kill that son-of-a-bitch...it was the guy we've been hunting down?"

 _'I've'. The guy 'I've' been hunting down, Shepard._ Keeping that petty comment to himself for now, he nodded sagely, "Yes. As you can imagine, the crew is having to ration tears at the moment."

Shepard chuckled bitterly at the somewhat ghastly act described to him, "If I didn't know already who had done it, I might have shook their hand. We've wanted that scumbag dead for years, and some cultist zealot gets lucky and takes him out for me?"

"I wouldn't blame you for having conflicting feelings," he retorted mirthfully, "If I find him, I'll be sure to shake his hand on your behalf."

The former commander merely offered a grunt in response, before going silent for a few moments, contemplating what he was told. Garrus had to admit that it felt a little surreal to hear this news: the  _Normandy_ crew had made many enemies, but none of them had lived to survive their wrath...except Ka'hairal Balak. They had fought and killed the Shadow Broker, wiped out the Reapers, obliterated the Collectors, killed Saren Arterius, taken down the Illusive Man and Cerberus...but the face of the batarian regime, probably the most evil of them all, had survived...even become a co-belligerent towards the end of the war. Shepard had confided in him just how much he wanted the batarian dead: how he had known him since he found out he was behind the attack on Elysium that had made him famous. Shepard had promised to kill Balak when the war was over, but for one reason or another, that personal mission was put on indefinite  _hiatus_ when he went to live on Rannoch with Tali. Mutually, Balak had wanted Shepard dead, especially after the Aratoht incident.

To learn that the leader of some cult, a man with far less resources, far less capabilities and an exceedingly below average knowledge of how the batarian operated and what his personality was, had succeeded where they had failed...you could be damn right their feelings were conflicted.

"So...Balak is dead," Shepard piped up after a long silence, shaking his head disconcertedly, "But wasn't he on Khar'Shan? I had Liara using all her intelligence resources to find that fucker...he's been hiding in batarian space since the war ended. He knew I'd be there for him the moment he stepped foot outside Hegemony space, so he hid there. So how the fuck did the Samaritan get him?"

He sighed, scratching the left side of his face. The point in the conversation he dreaded the most had arrived, "He didn't...not physically. Didn't even get his own cultists to do it. He...we're still not sure how or why, but he somehow got in touch with one of the revolting slave factions based near Rekalhafg. A former slave, a man known only by his lias 'The Collector', took responsibility for the hit. He was one of Balak's personal slave. He also killed Balak's adjutant, but he had help. We think...the Council has received actionable intel that the slaves were recruited by the Shepardists, namely the Samaritan, to kill Balak."

"That's..." Shepard trailed off, worried by the implications of such a statement.

"It sounds crazy, admittedly," he replied straightforwardly, "But it fits their profile. Everybody the Shepardists have targetted have not only had connections to you, but have been people you've knocked heads with. Aria T'Loak, Dalatrass Linron...now Balak? STG thought it was too much of a coincidence, and they were right. Batarian SIU, with a little bit of a push, gave up what they knew. They've had the Shepardists on Khar'Shan wiretapped for a while now. Just a day before the attack occurred, the Shepardists reached out to the Rekalhafg cell of the Slave Revolutionary Army. They...recorded the whole thing. The Samaritan's name was even dropped. He definitely ordered that hit."

"What the hell does he hope to gain?"

"I haven't the faintest clue," he shrugged his shoulders in exasperation, "If he's obsessed with you, and he's going after your former enemies, then the next target could be anybody. Spirits, the Council might even get paranoid and think they're next because of they treated us during those years leading up to the war. Who knows with cultists...they're crazy. Its impossible to calculate the predictability of crazies."

"Tell me about it," Shepard declared, groaning irritably, "You won't believe who paid me and Tali a visit here on Rannoch yesterday."

His eyes widened in shock, "What? How did they...? Are you alright?"

There was an amused chuckle, followed by a dismissive snort, "Yes, we're fine, Garrus. And I doubt the cultist would have survived Tali's wrath had he gotten violent. As for the cultist themself...Garrus, it was Conrad. Conrad Verner."

"What?" he asked incredulously, feeling like he had just been punched in the face.  _Conrad Verner? The overly excited, creepily-obsessed nerd who followed Shepard around like a lost varren? The harmless kid who was just a tad misguided? Sure, he led the Shepardists prior to the Samaritan's takeover, but that was before the organization became more militant. Hard to believe Conrad would survive that...let alone have the gall to approach Shepard at his own home,_ "Why was he there?"

"To speak to me, he says," Shepard revealed, waving his hand around vaguely in description of the event, "He was...pretty adamant about it. Wasn't even afraid of Urz...he's gotten ballsy. I'm fairly confident the Samaritan put him up to it, though. There's no way Conrad found us on his own...he had help. Whoever this Samaritan is, he knows a lot about us...about me. Tali's a bit concerned."

"I would be too if the creepy fanboys that were following me around turned up to my house," the turian added.

He nodded, "That's what I thought too. Either way, Tali notified the rest of the Admiralty. The quarians were apparently already in the process of screening for Shepardists anyway, and the cell based in El'Tivv has gone to ground. Suffice to say, no more Shepardists will be visiting Rannoch without Tali knowing about it. No more surprise visits, at least."

"I still don't think I can quite fathom it. Conrad...the same guy who dressed up in fake armor and was fooled into thinking he was shaking down a red sand ring on Illium? The same Conrad? Hard to see him becoming radicalized."

"I wouldn't have believed it myself, until I saw it," Shepard divulged, wiping his face down in displeasure. Giving himself a moment to get composed again, he just shook his head, hand rubbing the back of his neck like one tended to a persistent itch, "Anything else I should know? Aside from some scumbag being dead?"

 _Here it goes_. "Yeah...about that. Shepard, its not quite that simple," he began, trying to find a delicate way to approach the coming revelation, "Normally, I wouldn't have bat an eye at someone like Balak being lynched by a former slave. I might have called it beautifully ironic. But...it goes beyond that. Shepard, there's a reason why the Collector and his slaves are working with the Shepardists. They're being financed by them."

The word 'terrorism' hardly needed to be dropped for Shepard to lean back in his chair, sigh heavily and cover his face with both of his hands in chagrin. The Slave Revolutionary Army wasn't a well kept secret by the Hegemony...neither were the slave revolts they coordinated and orchestrated. The Hegemony had been in a bad way since the war: not only had they been the first hit when the Reapers finally arrived, but the worst hit. Their navy was essentially yesterday's history, most of the professional army was gone, their civilian population was decimated, their already battered economy was shattered by the depression, and most of the hardcore, staunch supporters of the regime had died when the Supreme Regent did. Balak had been one of the few left of a dying breed. And with the Hegemony's economy essentially in open revolt, with their military in too piss poor a condition to quell it like they had in the past and their intelligence agencies in shambles, the Hegemony's collapse was a matter of 'when', not 'if'. Not even the feared  _Feksogar_ secret police were enough to keep the slaves in line now.

However, as sympathetic and heroic the SRA's cause might be...however much it seems like they deserve to achieve victory over their batarian fascist oppressors, the SRA were not entirely innocent victims. While their cause had started out noble and just, it, like all the good causes of history, eventually turned to extreme methods and violence to achieve its aims. Riots evolved into public executions and lynchings. Negotiations turned into butchery and political assassinations. War was the tool which the slaves had chosen to liberate themselves. Unfortunately for everybody else, the Hegemony weren't their only enemy they had set eyes on. As far as they were concerned, the Council and the rest of the galaxy were just as guilty for turning a blind eye to the Hegemony's illegal operations, and thus their grievances were with them as well. Garrus couldn't blame them, and could certainly see why they believed this: the Council, instead of imposing sanctions on the Hegemony when they implemented institutionalized slavery after the end of the Batarian Civil War, had turned a blind eye to the batarians. They didn't even do anything when slaver raids began on human colonies. So absent was Council intervention that the batarians even publicly contracted the Blood Pack to run third-party slaving, not even trying to keep it secret. They even named an entire branch of their military the  _Slaver Corps_ , almost like it was out of spite.

So yeah...one could understand the SRA's hatred for the Hegemony and the Council. Unfortunately however, Garrus wasn't in a position of neutrality. He was a Council agent, and thus the Council's enemies were  _his_  enemies by extension. In the end, that placed him in the unenviable position of being the Hegemony's ally. He had to help people he despised crush a rebellion by people he respected and secretly supported. Without the Council, the SRA might have succeeded in toppling the Hegemony. With the Council though...with that kind of firepower and might, the SRA didn't stand a chance.

And, loathe as he was to admit it, the SRA's tactics and calls for the deaths of all their enemies...landed them squarely as terrorists. And no matter the government... _nobody_ liked terrorists.

And the Shepardists were funding them.

Shepard understood this too, and he sighed, "One man's terrorist, is another's freedom fighter..." he trailed off under a whisper, before shaking his head, leaning forward again, voice back to normal pitch, "The SRA was bound to drag the Council into their conflict someday. It was only a matter of whose side they'd choose to enter on. And if the SRA are in bed with the Shepardists...this rabbit role just gets fucking deeper and deeper."

He winced, trying his best to hide his discomfort. With his anger gone, all that was left was the same, importunate need to convince Shepard to do what he knew, deep down, would be something he'd never agree to. Despite this, he no longer had the patience, or the time, to do so. Events were in motion that could no longer entertain either of their wishes much longer.

But Shepard noticed. He always did. Regardless of his profession as a killer, he knew how to read expressions, even those of turians, and with all the facial cues he was giving off, his human friend couldn't ignore what he had seen, "There's something else, isn't there Garrus?"

"Yes Shepard, there is," he hissed through clenched mandibles, trying not to sound annoyed, but unable to hold back, "The  _Normandy..._ the Nos Astra Justice Department isn't cooperating with C-Sec or the Council anymore. Citadel's Justice Bureau has shut up the investigation on Illium, and the NAPD is taking point now. We're on our way back to the Citadel...with no leads on the Samaritan or where his followers are now based, the Shepardists financing slaver terrorists, Balak dead as a direct result of that, the Hegemony on the brink of a civil war, and the Council seriously concerned that this civil war could spillover into not just Alliance space, but Council space, meaning their intervention is all but certain...I'm sorry Shepard, but they won't wait any longer."

"What...?" Shepard began...his eyes widening, jaw clenched.

"Its too much," he elaborated, "The STG is already cooperating with Batarian SIU to begin crackdowns across Khar'Shan. The Council didn't care before, but now that the SRA is expanding their operations to include Council and Alliance targets, and with their recent ties to a wanted fugitive, they can no longer afford to remain on the sidelines. They're even thinking of deploying Spectre assets to contain the situation. That...also means their patience is at an end. I stalled them as best I could, but with no leads and the crisis getting worse and worse...they ordered me to contact you."

Shepard already knew what was being asked before even confirmed it, "They want me to come back."

"Its not a matter of want anymore, Shepard," Garrus affirmed, "They're making it an  _order_."

"Of course they are..." he muttered, shaking his head slowly in stoic silence.

"I tried to convince them otherwise. Told them we didn't need you...that I could find them, given time," he felt he needed to convince Shepard that he tried, that he wasn't doing this without trying to find a better solution, even if it wasn't all that necessary in his friend's eyes, "I was getting through to them...until the SRA just had to go and kill the most infamous slaver in batarian history. Then the olive branch was extended, SIU shared their intel...and now we're at a crossroads. I'm sorry, Shepard."

"No need to apologize," he responded inscrutably, "You did all you could."

Surprised by Shepard's lack of a fight, the turian surmized that he had won the argument before it was had, and pushed through to the next stage, "Just so you know, they're not demanding that you begin active deployment. They know why you left the spectres, and they're not going to push the issue. All they want is a public statement, from you, that will disavow the Shepardists. They're hoping that by doing this you'll-"

"No," Shepard stated, simple and to the point.

For the second time in just a few seconds, Garrus found himself rendered speechless. Taken offguard, it took him a few moments to be able to respond again, "No?"

"No," he repeated, this time more harshly, his expression cold and iron-like in its conviction. He hadn't seen that face since Shepard gave his final speech to the crew prior to the Battle of London. He had looked scary...but inspiring back then. This time...Garrus could only feel a pit of dread in his stomach at seeing it, "I will  _not_ be ordered around. I've made it abundantly clear, but apparently they need a reminder, so here it goes: I'm  _no longer_ a fucking  _Spectre_. I don't work for them, I'm no longer in the military...I was medically discharged from both. I am  _retired_.  _Resigned._ I don't give a fuck who they are... _I_ saved their sorry asses. I gave them plenty of chances to listen to me...they never did. They have no fucking right to suddenly value me as their crisis manager. Some instant solution they can call up whenever they get in trouble. They have the  _Normandy._ They will  _not_ have  _me_."

Flabbergasted by the brazen selfishness put on display here, Garrus couldn't help but look at Shepard in a mixture of shock and disgust. This man, the same one who would have put his life on the line for a random stranger in the street, who had given a down-on-his-luck quarian pilgrim 1,000 credits out of charity, who had gone out of his way to put a campaign on hold just to help a friend get revenge or exonerate the woman he loved of a crime she didn't commit...the very same man, who against all odds, despite not needing to, had shouldered the burden of leading a gargantuan war effort, who had tortured himself with casualty reports in the twisted hope it would motivate him to do better...who had taken on the weight of his own emotions in an effort not to demoralize his crew...

...this man, who embodied all of these acts of selfless altruism...was currently turning his back on a galaxy in need.

He was so speechless that he just sat in silence as Shepard continued, "The Samaritan is their problem, not mine. I want nothing more to do with my old life...I'm done. I've absorbed my fair share of punishment. I made a promise...that the Reapers would be it. That, after all that is done, I would set aside my rifle and build a new life. I have never once strayed from that...and I refuse to allow the Council to order me to break it."

Finding his nerve again, Garrus butted in, "I think Tali would understand if you broke a promise to her to help save the galaxy from a movement of madmen intent on using her soon-to-be husband's name to pervert the course of justice and wreak havoc on the galaxy!"

"Sure she would," Shepard admitted, "Because Tali rarely ever takes a moment to think of herself. I...I don't deserve somebody like her...but for whatever reason, I'm the lucky bugger she chose to be with. I will not destroy what we have, the future I promised her...just so I can go around fixing everybody's pest problems. You have the  _Normandy._ You have the Shadow Broker. You have the combined backing of entire governments at your disposal...you have the endless supply of allies we built up before and during the war...you don't need me. I'm  _not_ special. I put you in charge because I knew you could do just as good a job as I did. Use what you have and defeat the Shepardists. Just don't rope me into it."

"That's unfathomably  _selfish_  of you," he hissed, standing up from his chair and pointing angrily at his terminal. His cool had completely diminished, the sea wall breaking as the tidal waves of pent up anger finally broke through, nothing to stop them, "The Shepard  _I_  knew wouldn't be moping around like a lost fucking varren. He wouldn't be wallowing around in self-pity. He'd get up, slap on his armor and go  _kick some cultist ass!_  But no, you're just going to sit on Rannoch, cozy in your home, and let everybody do the work for you. That doesn't sound like the man I fought beside and respected. The man we all would have taken a bullet for."

"Oh, save me the fucking sermon, Garrus!" Shepard snarled in return, "You want to know my fucking limits? I died...nearly  _twice!_ I've watched and commanded friends and good men and women to die by their dozens! I've made shit decisions that have gotten people killed! I've wasted time and energy naively thinking all of it will eventually amount in a better tomorrow...only to watch vermin like Balak get off scot-free, running away where I can't touch him! You spend enough time trying to save every little person in the galaxy...and it will make you yearn for peace! And when you finally get it, you don't want to let go! You want to know what that feels like, Garrus? Do you? Take Kasumi, run off to somewhere quiet and peaceful, and then fucking tell me you'd give it all up at the drop of a hat because Council asked you nicely to deal with some thug and his cronies causing trouble."

"I'd do what's right..." he replied, "Which you've clearly forgotten how to do."

"Don't lie to me, Garrus," he spat back, "You and I both know that isn't true."

"Maybe it isn't," he admitted, sitting back down in his chair, "All I know is that the man I once respected...the man who I thought would always do the right thing, no matter what...is a coward."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, you heard me," the turian replied acidicly, "You're afraid of returning to the fold. This isn't about wanting peace...this is about you being afraid that you might not want it as much as you thought. You're terrified that if you get one little taste of combat again...you won't want to give it up. You're running from your duty...which makes you a fucking coward."

"I expected better of you," Shepard declared, "I thought you'd understand my decision. After all we went through during the war, I thought you'd at least comprehend my reasons. You even told me you had. And now here you are, delivering orders that would have me throw it away."

"All you need to do is publicly disavow-"

"Bullshit. You and I both know that won't work. The moment they see me on a vidscreen, all they'll hear is the opposite of what I'm saying. Disavowment will become enablement. They're a cult, Garrus. That's how they fucking operate. Anything that doesn't fit into their world view gets discarded for a warped version of that view. They won't change...the only way to stop them will be intervention. Which will inevitably have me return to the fold. This is a slippery slope I refuse to embark on."

"So that's it then," the turian shrugged, defeated, "You've given up. You'll even ignore a Council order."

"They don't give me orders. I don't work for them anymore," he returned.

"I thought we were better than this," the turian hissed, "I thought  _you_ were."

"You thought wrong," Shepard blankly offered...it was a weak response, but all he had, "Goodbye, Garrus. And give the Council my answer."

The comm link turned to a black screen before the turian could respond, leaving him to sit in silence, staring at an empty link. He could barely decipher what was said...it had all happened so fast. The intensity of their argument, the futility of Garrus' words...it had all come crashing down on him with the brute force of a krogan charge. Shepard had delivered his ultimatum, his damned dedication to inaction irritating Garrus to no end. Harsh words were exchanged, far more brutal than intended, leaving both to ponder what had been said.

In the end, there was nothing Garrus could say to alleviate the pain he felt. To push aside the feeling of...betrayal. Yes, that's what it was. Shepard had betrayed what he stood for...was willing to stand idly by while the Samaritan burned a bloody path through the peace they had fought so hard for. The very peace he was now using as a justification for his passivity. His complete apathy.

No, there was no words to be said.

In that moment...Garrus vented his anger the only way he could.

His arm raised, poised to strike, and came smashing back down, straight onto his terminal.

For those outside the room...all they would hear was the sound of a very incensed turian. A turian who had felt betrayed and left behind by the commander he had considered his  _prelatum ostri_.

* * *

 _Shepard Residence, Rannoch - January 18, 2188_.

Hearing nothing but silence behind the door that led into Shepard's study on the second floor, Tali figured the argument was now over. She had been downstairs making lunch for herself when she had heard the raised voices of Shepard and Garrus upstairs. Driven by curiosity, Tali couldn't help herself and had gone up to investigate. It didn't take her long to deduce what they were talking about, and she winced at some of the vitriol the two threw at each other. Garrus calling Shepard a coward...Shepard, in turn, accusing Garrus of trying to drag him back to the galactic stage. The heated exchange had ended with Shepard wistfully cutting the line, likely leaving a stunned and furious Garrus to stew on the other end.

She had waited a minute, listening for any sound, but failing to find any. Nothing but silence permeated the room, and she could only conjure up the image of her  _neh'sah_  staring blankly at his desk, annoyed at his friend, but feeling guilty about what he had said. Garrus was only doing what he thought was best for Shepard, but apparently Shepard didn't share his feelings. Tali couldn't blame either of them, and found herself not knowing who to support.

_John wants us to remain here and let the cultist crisis blow over. Garrus wants to take action and defeat the cult before the situation grows out of control. Neither of them are necessarily wrong...but keelah, I don't know who I support more. John is only doing what he thinks is best for me...for us. He wants us to begin a new life free of conflict, but we can't do that if the Shepardists are constantly drawing attention to him._

UItimately, Tali knew that delaying confronting the subject was a no-go now. They had to talk about it...the amount of attention it was drawing towards them was simply becoming too much. Before, she was right along with him in believing that they could just ignore the problem and it would go away...she even encouraged him to believe that. But now...from the sounds of it, fate just wasn't having it. The Shepardists weren't going anywhere...and that was simply not something they could afford to ignore much longer.

Finally, after a long moment, she reached down and turned the door knob, swinging the door open as she entered the room. Almost immediately, Shepard was shaken from his dormant state as he looked up to address his guest. Upon seeing her he relaxed, smiling weakly before returning to his pensive state. His terminal was inactive...the display dimmed and powered down, as it had been for over a minute. He simply sat behind his desk, one hand secretly massaging his sore right leg, while the other cradled his head, supporting it while he was deep in thought.

Closing the door behind her, she quietly and delicately approached him, doing so until she stood right infront of the desk, hands braced against it as she looked right down at him. Not wanting the silence to linger between them any longer than she had to, she moved to speak up, her auditory emulator lighting up as it picked up the sound of her voice...

...only for Shepard to get there first, "I'm guessing you heard the entire argument?"

Her gentle, tactful nod was all the answer he needed, "Most of it, yes."

He remained sullen in solitude for a few more grating moments, leading Tali to almost speak up before he could. Instead, his anger came bellowing out all at once, only now realizing he had an outlet from which to vent it too, "The Council tried to  _order_ me to the Citadel. After everything I told them about retiring...they have the nerve to think they can continue to give me orders, almost as if I never left. And then Garrus...of  _all people_...tries to guilt trip me into going!"

Her mouth snapped shut, the quarian having picked up on enough verbal cues to know that Shepard was about to have another rant, and that it was best to let him ventilate all his frustration in one go...when Shepard was in one of these foul moods, she knew better than to try and reason with him right off the bat. She knew this because many of these rants had been shared with her during the war, where Shepard would wait until he was alone with her and let all the day's stress out in one load. Sometimes it was Tali who ranted, and Shepard would pay her in kind and just...listen. The both of them, if not the entire squad, had developed the uncanny, and disturbing, ability to bottle up their emotions during important situations, only allowing themselves time to vent when the time allowed for it. In a life and death situation, unfiltered stress could be a death sentence.

So Tali would listen...just as she always had.

He stood up, waving his hands in the air as he gesticulated his point. Shepard very rarely got angry, or at least he didn't let people see it, always managing to keep his cool during diplomatic situations...only in certain situations, such as their final battle with Kai Leng on Cronos Station, had he allowed all that anger to run freely, turning it into a weapon that he could use to bludgeon his enemies to death with. However, since the war had ended, Shepard had...been more emotional. Less likely to bottle up his emotions, and more commonly allowing them to run freely. Tali had pinned it down to him not being in the military anymore: his crew were no longer his subordinates, including Tali, were no longer subordinates and he didn't need to treat them as such. He had no ship to command, no mission to complete, no enemy to eliminate...it was just him and his lover. But with the Shepardist situation, and Shepard's physical and mental state, she was beginning to wonder if there were other reasons she wasn't quite grasping yet...

"The Shepardists are  _not_ my problem," he hissed, pacing back and forth, "And the Council cannot just sick me on every bad guy that crops up. I've had enough! But no, people simply won't get the hint! And now Garrus, the one person who I thought would understand the most aside from you,  _agrees_  with them! After everything we've been through...Saren, the Collectors, the Reapers...every horror we've conquered and every foe we've vanquished...the people we've lost, and the choices we've had to make...and he has the audacity to look me in the eyes, and call me a  _coward_  for wanting nothing more to do with it. For putting down my rifle and seeking something better."

She winced, finding herself equal parts angry and sympathetic at that revelation.  _I can't believe Garrus would say that. That's...horrible. Unfair. Cruel. Perhaps he didn't mean it, but it doesn't change the fact that he said it...and its clear hit Shepard hard. To have his best friend equate him to the filthiest of usze'tabb miz'qec...unbelievable. I get what Garrus is trying to do...he only wants to help us, but insulting your friend is not the way to go about it._

"Everybody wants me to be omnipotent," he stood still, fists clenched so tightly that his veins were flaring angrily against his skin, "To save everyone. To solve every issue. To kill every bad guy. To save the day, everyday. They think because I saved the galaxy my fair share of times, that it must be my destined day job. But none of them know what I did it for..." his eyes panned to hers, the raw emotion there a rare sight from Shepard, but one that warmed her up inside knowing what it carried, "... _who_ I did it for."

Then he shook his head, returning to his rant, the moment of clarity gone, "I can't be held to account everytime somebody pretending to be a supporter of mine commits an act of terror in my name. I'm not a Spectre anymore. I'm not even a soldier. I have no command. I turned down a promotion to admiral. Anybody who even bothered to look would see that, for all intents and purposes, my plan is to leave that life well behind. To start fresh. Get married, build a new life, have-" he cut himself off, but quickly continued on as if he had never stopped, "But they don't care. All they see is a threat and instead of trying to solve it, they want to jump straight to the easy solution and have me clean it up for them. My life be damned. No...I won't let them do that to me. To us. I will not allow them to wither out in complacency and turn to me as a default resolution."

 _I do think he's overreacting a little..._  she thought to herself,  _all the Council wants him to do is go to the Citadel to denounce the Shepardists publicly. Then we can go on with our lives, and they'll handle the rest. Not one part of that calls for deployment, at least from my understanding of it._

"I know it sounds childish. Incredibly selfish even," Shepard admitted, answering what he assumed was an unspoken question, despite the quarian's tense silence, having said less than five words since entering the room, "And hey, I'll admit, there are times I've sat and wondered if what I'm doing is right. The consequence of having so much time to myself, no missions or reports to file, is that I have inordinate amounts of time to think. I've had debates with myself...even considered giving Garrus a call, to tell him I've changed my mind. But then I realized that the only reason I'm even considering any of it is because others have pressured me to do so. That's what I don't miss about the service: the pressure. The stress. Every day may be your last, every decision a bloody outcome...I know you and the others think I'm some sort of superhuman for being able to process it all, but the truth is...I don't. I'm just better at hiding it. I'm sick of being pressured. Of politicians organizing backroom deals with me. Of being placed in impossible scenarios. Its...a horrible burden. And they want me to take it all up again. Do you remember when we reunited during the war, during that talk in our cabin...?" he sat back down, looking up at her with the most confusingly frustrated/defeated look she had ever seen on him. Almost like...he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

She nodded, and he bobbed his head in turn, ruffling his hair as he ran a hand through it, "Do you remember what you confided in me? About being an admiral, with the lives of all your people riding on your shoulders, looking to you to save them...to lead them?"

"Yes," she whispered. It was a moment of weakness she was not fond of. She must have looked so silly to him...complaining about the burdens of command to someone who knew it better than she ever could.

"That's what I felt...every day," he divulged, letting forth a shaky breath, "I punished myself with every casualty report I read. Reports of civilian death tolls...mentally, I told myself, their deaths were on my head. I wasn't fast enough. Strong enough. Smart enough. They died because I didn't save them...and that wasn't good enough. When Mordin died, Thane was killed and Legion sacrificed himself...I convinced myself that I could have saved them, but didn't because I was weak. So when you told me that day how you felt being an admiral...I knew, in that moment, that the same disease that consumed me was eating you up too. And I was scared for you. But now that I've had time to dwell on it...I also know that it will help you to understand my reasoning for not wanting to go back. You, more than anybody else, will accept my decision for what it is, but you've experienced it first hand."

The bombshell Shepard had delivered had given both of them plenty to think about. Tali mulled over what he had said quietly, saying hardly a word. Shepard watched her studiously, waiting patiently for her own take on the situation. She knew her word held weight with him...a lot of weight. So much so she had somehow convinced the most desired man in the galaxy, a galactic war hero and the champion of the human race, to toss aside his entire military career to run off to Rannoch with her, isolated from his peers, to build a house for them and to start their new life. So, suffice to say, her opinion was mattered much and more to him. Which is why she would think carefully about what she said next.

She had heard both sides of the argument. Her emotions and heart, biased as they were, sided with Shepard's mentality. While selfish, a trait any quarian would have been ashamed to have attributed to them, neither of them could say they really felt bad about it. This was something the two of them had dreamt of since they first got together...she remembered the promise he had made to her on the  _Alarei_ , when they had been searching for her doomed father, over two years ago. His promise to build her a house back then had been platonic of course: a one-way agreement he had made to a friend he cared deeply for. The idea of him living in that house with her had been...hardly considered by either of them. If only they had known what would happen only a month and a half later...

So yes, her heart told her to side with Shepard. To support his decision to remain on Rannoch, to ignore the Shepardist crisis, and let the world pass them by as they enjoyed the ripe fruit of the peace they had fought and worked so hard to see. Remembering their second promise to each other in London only reinforced her stance: the promise to come back to each other, to put an end to it all. They had been terrified...scared of facing the end. They had both entertained what-then-seemed like a delusion, both knowing they'd either both of them or one of them weren't going to come back...and when she had found Shepard's bruised, barely functioning body, she knew that promise was more important than ever. So did she oppose him returning to his old life? Yes. She most certainly did.

But, then again, nobody said Shepard had to do so. Which is what the logical part of her argued...

"John..." she began, walking around the desk until she was leaning against it, arms crossed and looking down at him, "...I think Garrus is right."

That visibly shocked him: the rapidly developing frown on his face was evidence of that. She knew he probably wasn't unreasonable enough to think she would one hundred percent agree with him, but to hear her say she agreed with the people trying to drag him back to a life she had made him promise (or, more fairly put, they had mutually agreed to) never to return to...it must have felt like a punch to the gut.

"Not...not you too," he drawled, taking the instant he had spoken to stand up and walk away from her. Stopping at the edge of the room, he whirled back towards her, shaking his head, "Why on earth would you say that?"

"I know what I said," she admitted, shrugging, "I know we both promised the Reapers would be where we ended our previous lives and began our new ones...I know you wanted out, and I respect your choice. But it doesn't have to be that way, John. They're not asking you to pick up a gun or go field a risky operation...all they want you to do is publicly denounce the Shepardists, and they'll do the rest."

"Come on, Tali," he bemoaned, shaking his head disapprovingly, "You give an inch, they take a mile. It won't end with denouncement...even if it did, I'm not going to be bossed around by the three stooges on the Citadel and treated like a pawn that they can deploy whenever the mood strikes them. No...I'll denounce the Shepardists, then they'll ask if I can be a liason to whatever anti-cultist task force they conjure up. That means accompanying them onto the field...if the cultists get violent, then that means combat. I'll probably need to defend myself. Before you know it, I'm given a personal sidearm. A week later, I'm a field agent. A week after that...I'm commanding the task force. Before you can blink...they've roped me back in. Its a slippery slope, Tali. Give too much, and they take that and then some. It doesn't end with denouncement."

She could see his point, even if it was founded on a lot of maybies...but a small part of her couldn't help agreeing with him. The very real possibility that they would slowly but surely edge him towards reinstatement existed, and Tali feared it as much as he did, but she also knew that it was equally possible that his involvement could end entirely with said public anathematization, and that he wouldn't have to intervene beyond that. Shepard knew that as well...but he was running low on options. And he was relying on Tali to provide him the best one.

He needed her to convince him. To push him to accept the reality of their situation.

"I don't know what will happen, John," she retorted finally, standing up and moving over to him slowly, meeting his intense gaze head on, "But I do know that yesterday, our house was visited by one of them. By a person you know. They found our house, the location of which is supposed to be secret. If one cultist has visited us, that means more will follow. If they continue to think you support them, that you really are their 'Crusader' as they call you, then they will not stop with a visit. They'll turn our home into a shrine. A temple. Is that what you want for us? To be followed and harassed by an entire cult of people who think you're their God? How peaceful will our life really be if we sit by and let that continue?"

For once, he didn't have a comeback. Shepard's mind consumed her words, debated them in his head, and found himself lacking a suitable counterpoint. Noting his indecision, she pressed on, stepping up until she was right infront of him, her hands reaching up to grasp the sides of his face as she gently forced him to look at her, the three fingers of each hand grazing the bristles lining his jaw. He looked so vulnerable when he was like this, the feel of her touch practically soaking up the tension in his body like a sponge, "We can't hide from this forever. We knew outside circumstances might one day force us to make a return in some capacity. Granted, its sooner than we would have liked, but perhaps its good we get this over with now, so that we can have the rest of our lives to look forward to. I'm not saying denouncing the Shepardists will eliminate the problem...but it will make it less likely for them to harass us if they hear you criticizing them. Nothing spurns a follower like being scolded by their God."

"I hate being treated like that..." he muttered, closing his eyes, "...like a man above mortals..."

"I know," she cooed, pulling his head forward so her mask bumped against his temple, hands sliding down to rest on his broad shoulders, his own hands now rising to rest on her hips, "But your silence is what's enabling them. The Council sees that, and so does Garrus. You're not a coward,  _neh'sah_. You're the most courageous, selfless, brave man I've ever met, and Garrus knows that too. I don't agree with what he said, but he meant well. You need to face this, John. Go to the Citadel...denounce them. Show those cultist zealots that you will not allow your name to be sullied by them any longer..."

He reached up with one hand, grasping one of hers like he was holding a feather, and lightly kissed the three knuckles of her hand in tandem, " _Our_ name..."

"Soon," she smiled, stroking his cheek lovingly, "But not yet. First...we need to settle this."

He sighed longingly, pulling away from the comforting cradle her hand offered him as he looked at her, "I know...but...I don't know if I can risk it."

She smiled reassuringly, nodding slowly, "This won't stop until you do. This is where we're at, John...your only chance to put a stop to this. Go to the Citadel, make the announcement, come home again. If you're looking for me to agree with you...I don't. Because I really do believe the only way to get them to leave us alone is to put a stop to them using the Shepard name to commit atrocities. Please...this is the only option open to us. To  _you_. Sitting idly by just isn't going to cut it anymore."

His expression was nebulous at this point, giving no clear indication of his mental state or his opinion of her strategy. There were times where she enjoyed seeing this vulnerable side of him: whilst in this state, he didn't keep his emotions contained, and he wasn't under the burden of having to give her orders in the middle of a battle. Nothing was kept secret. But then there was times like this, where his vulnerability allowed her to see the side of him that tackled with the consequences of his decisions. This was one such time...only, he hadn't made a decision yet.

He looked away from her for a moment, looking out through the window of his study. He had confided in her how much the sight of the ocean calmed him, which is why he had made sure to place his study somewhere he had an unfiltered view of it...to help him think. It was for that very reason that he was looking out the window at that moment, his hazel eyes reflecting the blank stare that came with someone who was zoned out in cogitation. She just stood there, patiently waiting for him, searching his face for evidence that he was still determining whether or not to go forward with her suggestion.

Finally, he shook his head, tearing away from the view of the Rannochian waves to turn back to her. Still she remained silent, not wanting to pry. He smiled in appreciation, hands reaching down to grasp her arms carefully. Finally, he spoke, his voice still carrying the indecision it had before, "I'll...I need to give it some thought. Just give me some time to think."

With that, he pulled away from her, brushing past her on his way towards the door. She turned with him, frowning, "Where are you going?"

"For a walk," he replied simply, "Along the beach. Need to clear my head. Think. I'll only be an hour or two."

With a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, he closed the door behind him, leaving Tali in the room by herself. Sighing, she pulled out his desk chair and sat down in it, eyes still locked on the door he had closed.

She was concerned...she'd be lying if she said she wasn't. All her fears about Shepard being unable to move on from the Reaper War and the injuries it left permanently left marring his body and soul...they were yet to be denied. Shepard was trying his absolute best to wriggle free of that past, but here Tali was, suggesting he go back to it...even if only for a little bit. She argued it was for their protection: defeat a developing threat so it wouldn't impinge on their new life. Perhaps she was wrong to think that...but she knew Shepard needed a solution to this issue, and this was the closest he would get to closure. Even if the denouncement only made him believe the problem was dealt with, it would be enough to calm him down...relieve the stress that was gradually beginning to build up again.

She hoped it was enough...because even she was clueless as to what else to do at this point.

* * *

 _Kepcedah, Khar'Shan - January 19, 2188 - The next day_.

Good riddance.

If somebody had bothered to ask Colonel Ocroth Kes'fakk what he thought of Ka'hairal Balak's untimely demise...he'd have delivered an answer that would have the  _Feksogar_ throwing him into a deep, dark cell at Prag'pador (the top secret Hegemony military installation that definitely doesn't exist and he knows nothing about), hidden away in the Cad'gerk mountains where he would never see the light of day again.

He was glad Balak was dead.

Being a member of the Hegemony's elite Special Intervention Unit (SIU) didn't make one a devout loyalist or a staunch supporter of the state...it just meant you could hide it better than the rest. The Kes'fakk family had the esteemed honor of being one of the few families to directly trace their lineage all the way back to the royal dynasties of the Khar'Shani kingdoms...one of his ancestors even became the Venerate First Minister of the Batarian Republic, prior to its collapse at the combined efforts of fascist rebels and their quarian enemies. After all...Khar'Shan hadn't always been the epicenter of a totalitarian, authoritarian regime. It had once boasted an impressive military, a proud upper class, and lush industry and agriculture. They had been a power that the Council could both admire and fear. Then the quarians came along...with their technological prowess, and their filthy obsession with expansion. Confrontation with the Batarian Republic was all but inevitable...and the Council just sat by and watched, eager to be rid of its two biggest economic rivals.

But the batarians were betrayed from within...the Quarian-Batarian War didn't destroy the Republic. Fascist traitors, who followed the Cult of the Supreme Regent, sabotaged them from within, pushing the two powers to war in the hopes the quarians would cripple the batarian war machine...which they did, making their takeover all the more seamless. The resulting civil war was the final nail in the coffin for the Republic, and gave rise to the depiscable Hegemony that everybody knew today. The Batarian Republic, in its heyday, would never have allowed slavery...especially not in an institutionalized, government-sanctioned form.

So yes...Ocroth despised the Hegemony. To enter the SIU required rigorous devotion to the cause, of course, and a strong, incorruptible sense of patriotism...all of which Ocroth had in abundance. Not for his state though...but for his people.

One of the few institutions to survive the regimentation and homogenization of the batarian military was the SIU. While having existed under different names in the past, the SIU's brutal and utterly relentless training program was eternal. It had earned even the respect of the turian Blackwatch and asari commandos, with the most grudging of fear coming from the human N7s. Ex-SIU operatives were some of the most sought after mercenaries in the galaxy, and while infamous for their elitism, they did not have to work much to earn that self-acclaim. Ocroth wasn't the kind of man to place himself for hire, and he had no plans on retiring, but he knew if he did...he wouldn't be without a job for long.

The SIU's operations weren't as much of a closely-guarded secret as the  _Feksogar_ , and the Hegemony often deliberately publicized their actions, albeit with some dramatic flair and a touch of mythological implausibility, to maintain the fear surrounding the SIU. While Ocroth wasn't a fan of the 'facts' made up regarding the SIU (such as their supposed involvement in eliminating a squadron of Reapers during the war single-handedly, which even batarian military intelligence admitted was nothing more than proposterous rumor), he had to admit the idea of even the most battle-hardened asari commando team ruing the day they'd have to face an SIU squad was one he enjoyed picturing immensely.

But he digressed. Ocroth hated Balak for what he represented: the Hegemony's golden boy. Their poster child. The perfect, incorruptible, infallible, heroic, champion of the Hegemony, and a masterpiece of batarian mentality. The way they promoted him, one would think he was the batarian Commander Shepard. Ocroth not only resented him, he hated him. He was everything that was wrong about batarian culture. He supported a regime that exploited their own people for material gain, a government that even resorted to enslaving their lower class to supplement the lack of foreign slaves they had post-war...the same one that stripped batarians of their freedoms and rights and viewed them as nothing more than subservient cattle. The glorious cities of their ancestors...turned into glorified labor camps. Statues erected to praise the actions of traitors, murderers and war criminals. Health care and emergency services run down and severely underfunded...all because most of it goes towards a military that has lost its sense of purpose, of devotion. And Balak supported it. Reveled in it. Even helped make some of the policies that perpetuated it.

Ultimately, Ocroth could say, outside the hearing range of the  _Feksogar_ , that he was relieved Balak was dead. Happy, even. Sure, he hated Commander Shepard like most batarians for what he did to the three hundred thousand people in the Bahak system, but to have Balak condem that was sheer hypocrisy. How does a man who profits from ruining the lives of thousands have the right to find thousands more being killed rephrensible? The man lacked any form of moral compass. Or rather... _had_  lacked one. Anyway...he despised Shepard, but even he would have shook the man's hand if it meant Balak ended up dead. Then he'd probably shoot him afterwards.

He was glad to see the Hegemony crumbling. With the loss of their best military commander, the Hegemony had suffered a final mortal blow they would never recover from. Every branch of their military was in tatters, their leadership was made of hastily promoted officers who weren't ready for their commission, and it showed, and their economy was down the toilet. The oppressive regime that had ruled over them for seven centuries was on the verge of total collapse...and when it did, Ocroth had every intention of rising to the occasion. He might even join the winning side. Reignite Kes'fakk family legacy.

Right now, his money was on the Slave Revolutionary Army. Their fight was taking the whole of Khar'Shan by storm. And while the Hegemony's 'morally friendly' censored-version of the extranet, the  _Heg'radaesh,_  had cleverly kept the SRA's influence limited to the homeworld, Ocroth had heard from his sources on Erszbat, Logasiri, Ramlat, Verush and Camala that cells of the SRA were somehow communicating with the main cell on Khar'Shan, coordinating directives and attacks on military targets. Most of SIU theorized strongly that the SRA had not only gained access to Hegemony military equipment, but that it wasn't hijacked: it was freely given to them by defecting members of the military. It was a poorly held secret that entire companies of troops had deserted their posts and joined the SRA, taking with them tanks, weapons, aircraft...just last week, the batarian frigate BRS  _Revenge Keeper_ , had disappeared...only to be reappear during an attack on a naval shipyard, oh-so-subtlely renamed  _Returned Favour._ Perhaps the most egregious, and worst of all the military defections, was the rumoured SRA attack on the the top-secret Prag'pador installation.

The Prag'pador facility was something of a myth among the brass: named after the infamous founder of the  _Vekos'net_  (the precursor to the  _Feksogar_ ) known as the 'Bloody Carver', the facility was where dissidents and traitors went to die quietly, where top secret research was conducted and where the Supreme Regent and select functionaries were rumoured to have a 'doomsday' bunker. It was also a munitions depot where most of the Hegemony's deadliest WMDs were stored and kept...everything from biological contagions to thermonuclear weapons. It was wedged in the deepest part of the Cad'gerk mountains, which the architects had determined would make it nearly impossible to target via air strike, difficult to breach via ground-based raid, and impregnable to nuclear fallout or orbital bombardment. The perfect fortress. Secret, and invulnerable.

Or so they thought. Just yesterday, the SRA not only located the Prag'pador, but practically walked through the front door: moved in like they owned the place. Before emergency protocols could kick in and SIU forces could be on site, the SRA had left just as quickly as they entered, causing significant overall damage to the facility, killing numerous key personnel and apparently leaving empty-handed. This was the belief until somebody did a check of the munitions inventory.

And found one antimatter warhead missing.

Antimatter bombs were like nuclear weapons, but a hundred times worse. Nuclear-operated bombs split the atom to create the explosive effect that devastated everything in its wake...antimatter is notoriously unwieldy because the moment it touches ordinary matter is the moment everything around it for kilometers ceases to exist. Not only are they a thousand times more expensive to produce than nuclear weapons, but they were also banned from use by the Citadel Conventions due to their devastating firepower. Very few exist, and their use against the Reapers in what is known as the 'Miracle of Palaven' is well documented. While it cost hundreds of UGC troops their lives, the cost in return was the complete destruction of an entire Reaper battlegroup (some thirty ships), millions of the monsters they called ground troops and halted the Reaper advance for a day. And that was just  _one_ bomb.

Suffice to say, the Hegemony had made retrieval of that bomb a maximum priority. SIU and  _Feksogar_ were working together to find it...SIU and  _Feksogar_ despise each other. When they start assisting one another willingly...you know you have a global emergency on your hands. Having a weapon of that magnitude in the hands of terrorists was a nightmare on a scale of a thousand.

So despite the Hegemony's best attempts at keeping the insurrection from escalating into another civil war...the SRA was growing stronger with every passing day.

And the murmurs of planned betrayal ran deep. A murmur that Ocroth was beginning to share. Many were daring to believe in a better future for the batarian people...one free of the Hegemony's suffocating grasp, and the Supreme Regent's corruption and unchecked authority. The SRA represented a final change in the tide...one that Ocroth planned to fight beside eventually. Plans were already set in motion for his speedy exit...most of his SIU subordinates were onboard with him. Those he didn't trust enough to confide his exit strategy with were left out of the loop. They just needed to complete one final mission, and then they would be free to help start a civil war to liberate Khar'Shan.

But, for now, he was on the Hegemony's side...which meant fighting their enemies. Including the SRA.

Despite the serious threat of SRA rebels having their hands on an antimatter bomb, SIU Group Eight's task today was not to raid the facility holding it: no, this moment's escapade was equal parts crisis response, and an age ol' Hegemony favourite. Sending a message. Apparently a group of SRA who had been implicated in the murder of the  _Feksogar_ agents at the bar the day after Balak's murder had been tracked down to an apartment complex on the outskirts of Kecepdah, in the Jahradi slums district. Naturally, the  _Feksogar_ had sent Ocroth's SIU strike team to the complex instead of one of their own teams, preferring the SIU do their dirty work for them. To add insult to injury, they were given shoot-to-kill orders. The  _Feksogar_ had grown sloppy, allowed their agents to be compromised, and now wanted to make up for it by utilizing the SIU as the tip of their spear. It was a revenge operation, sanctioned by the government. Typical.

_Fucking Feksogar. If I ever get my hands on the Director, I'll kill that gekekt. Don't even have the balls to send their own men...so they have me do it for them. Meanwhile, they're looking for the real threat. Where do they get off making a knock-and-pop op a priority one?_

Nevertheless, they had their orders and with the Hegemony giving  _Feksogar_ full clearance, normal military procedure didn't count...so they had to comply. As much as Ocroth and his men hated working them. Nobody liked working with spooks. The  _Feksogar_ were boogeymen by reputation: their work imitated that of the Bloody Carver. They never had names, their leader only went by the name 'Director', and when they turned up, it was usually to kill or arrest you. A visit by the  _Feksogar_ was the last visit one would ever have. Even high-ranking batarian governors knew they weren't safe from their claws.

But...the  _Feksogar_ 's grip was slipping. The Reaper War had decimated their ranks, with many of their agents becoming indoctrinated and turning into tools to do the Reapers' bidding. The  _Feksogar_ after the war had lost much of its former strength, which is what had allowed the SRA to rise up the way it did. The  _Feksogar_ were the most effective government enforcers in the galaxy until the machines came. In a way...it was thanks to the Reapers that this revolution was even possible. How ironic.

Ocroth had lost nearly everything thanks to the  _Feksogar_ and the Reapers. The former had executed his wife on suspicion of treason (he had gotten drunk one night at a bar and told the wrong people the wrong secrets, which his wife had then covered for him), while the Reapers had forced him to kill his indoctrinated sons, killed his parents and destroyed his family home...a home that had been in his family for generations. Ocroth had lost everything...just another reason he wouldn't shed any tears when the  _Feksogar_ disintegrated. And even more justification for why he was furious that he was even doing this for them.

_Bide your time. Vengeance will come. And it will be sweet. It came for Balak. If the Haliat of Elysium couldn't escape justice, no one can._

"Two minutes out," the driver called out over the thrum of the IFV's engine. The vehicle was an old AU-15 'Akralya' infantry fighting vehicle, a remnant from the days of the Hegemony's military supremacy. It sported a fully rotational 40mm chain-driven autocannon, along with outdated reactive armor on the sides and front, a cramped troop bay in the back that could seat up to ten, and used a halftrack configuration for motion. It was obsolete by at least a century and a half, but was still a mainstay of the Hegemony's ground forces, and the SIU's primary mode of transportation and ground-side deployment.

Hearing the call out, Ocroth signalled his men wordlessly to begin a final equipment check. Rifles and sidearms were loaded, comms were checked, armor straps fastened, kinetic barriers tested. Ocroth went over the plan again for safety's sake, as simple as it was: breach for both sides of the complex, go in hard and eliminate all potential targets. Secure the building, clear the house and report back to HQ. A simple op. The seasoned professionals of Unit Eight simply nodded their heads in affirmation, having already memorized the plan verbatim. A second IFV would deploy the rest of Unit Eight at the back, while Ocroth and his team would breach from the front. His men knew what they were up against, and they weren't afraid. After all, it was a few former slaves against a SpecOps unit decked in full tactical gear. They didn't stand a chance.

Running one final check on his Tactyl battle rifle to ensure it was in working order (Tactyl, while largely reliable, also had a tendency to jam up), grabbed his helmet and slipped it over his head, dimming the visor afterwards to look through his suit's onboard computer. Everything was as it should be, which came as no surprise, as SIU were expected to look after their own equipment, and Ocroth spared no expense in that department. He had even installed numerous training and aim-assist VI suites to help him better hone his skills, making him the deadliest shot in the unit. Quickshot, they called him.

Two minutes later, the IFV's wheels screeched to a halt. The vehicle jolted on its suspension for a moment, before stopping, the bay door opening. With a grunt to his men, he rushed out and took point, legs bent in a crouch and his rifle held tightly to his chest. He stood and waited for the rest of his troops to come out, before moving to join them. All seven of them converged on their target: a tall, seven storey apartment complex, listed under the name of a batarian named Rarn Bamberk.  _Feksogar_ knew it was an alias, of course.

They quickly reached the front door, piling up on each side, with Ocroth closest to it on the left. His second-in-command, Icrask Gac'davan, also known as 'Blindspot', was closest on the right. Peeking through the window, the batarian continued to defy his mocking nickname as he provided an overview of their opposition, "I count four closest to the door: two on the upper stairwell, one in the laundry and another having a smoke near the door. I can just see another one sitting on a couch in the living room, and four others moving around. None of them look armed."

"Anything else?" Ocroth asked quietly, keeping their voices down to avoid detection, "Schematics mention a basement. Do you see an entrance?"

"I see what looks like the door that leads to it. Looks locked. Wait...I can see two guards. They  _are_ armed. M-3s."

"This is team two," Brolo Serrokk, leader of the second team, announced, "We're in position. Ready to breach on your word, Op1."

"Copy, Op2," he returned. He reached down and gently plucked two flashbangs from his bandolier, an act that Icrask followed up on. Giving a singular nod of approval, he took a deep breath, grasped his rifle tightly, and growled, "Okay, all ops, move in!"

Without even hesitating, Icrask moved back and slammed his foot forward, causing the wooden door to be torn off its hinges, splinters of broken wood spraying inwards as the object was violently kicked in. Shouts of surprise could be heard throughout, but they weren't given a chance to react as both Icrask and Ocroth filled the gap, activating their flashbangs before tossing them in. They then moved back, their tinted visors providing them shielding from the blinding rays of light. On the opposite side of the structure, four more could be heard rolling into the building. Less than two seconds later, piercingly loud bangs could be heard, along with the faint motes of light that were the flashbangs doing their job. Without a moment's hesitation, they moved in, rifles raised.

Dazed and defenseless, the first man was no hassle. Eyes still glued shut, his eyes rendered temporarily useless, the first man could do nothing as Icrask turned and fire, the high velocity round from his battle rifle penetrating through his lower abdomen, the concussive force sending him flying back into the wall behind him, blood spraying from his chest. The one in the laundry had been shielded from the blast, and quickly made a run for the opposite room, only to be caught in the leg by Icrask's lightning fast second shot.

Ocroth focused on the two upstairs. One had escaped the flashbangs, while the other was flailing around like a headless animal, crying out for help. Ocroth raised his weapon and tapped the trigger once, watching the explosion of blood and gore as his head was split open like a crushed apple, body flopping to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, rolling down the stairs. The second man blinked in shock, taking too long to figure out what to do as Ocroth readied his next shot, catching him in the throat. He fell to his knees, grasping his neck in a desperate attempt to stop his blood from leaking out. It was a lost cause.

Gunfire from the other side could be heard too. One of the two guards protecting the basement door shouted out what he assumed to be a comm, "They're here! Secure the package! Secure the-!" He never got to finish as Brolo came up behind him, slitting his throat with the ejectable blade built into the wrist of his armor. The second guard fired his pistol once, pinging harmlessly off Brolo's shield, before one of Brolo's men painted his essence across the door he was protecting.

Ocroth turned to the living room on the right next. They were beginning to recover from the flashbangs now. One man, still sitting in his seat, was moving to stand up when Ocroth double tapped him, one shot piercing a lung while another went straight through his heart, killing him instantly, his body remaining where it was seated, mouth opened in shock. Moving past him, he took down two more hostiles, shooting another through an upturned desk he had been naively using as cover, not knowing that wood was no match for mass accelerator rounds. The fourth and final hostile lunged at Ocroth in a flash of courageous vanity, only for the man to pivot on the spot, using his momentum to carry him into Ocroth's grasp before wrapping his arm around his neck, and snapping it with one brutal twist, letting the corpse drop to the floor.

Ocroth lowered his weapon, satisfied the room had been secured.

"Clear!" he shouted.

The footsteps of his men going upstairs could be heard, followed by a few more lingering exchanges of gunfire and shouting...followed by silence. The footsteps returned downstairs, the soldier responsible declaring the top floor to be secure. Soon, all teams reported in, with the entire house cleared...except the basement.

"Icrask, with me," he snapped, signalling three more soldiers to join them, "Brolo, take the rest and set up a perimeter. Make sure the house is secured."

Brolo gave a firm nod before carrying out his orders, while Ocroth and Icrask, with the three men he picked, lined up at the door.

"Sir," Icrask spoke, the first word he had exchanged with him since breaching the house, "One of the guards mentioned a package. Whatever he was talking about, that confirms two things: firstly, that whatever it is  _is_  done there, and two: that there are more hostiles downstairs."

"That's what I surmized," Ocroth returned, "Watch your corners. Ready a flashbang. We'll go in fast."

Nodding, they repeated their actions at the front door and each pulled out a flashbang. Counting to three, they then wrenched open the door, tossed the grenades inside, and patiently waited. He heard what sounded like a trio of voices shouting out in alarm, before being cut off by loud bangs and blinding light. That was there signal, with Icrask taking point, Ocroth not far behind him, and the rest taking the rear. They jogged down the stairs, weapons raised, silent as the shadows.

Once downstairs, they found five men, all armed with military-issue Nectra submachine guns. Four of them were too busy trying to desperately clear their eyesight to defend themselves, but one had successfully gotten to cover in time, and opened fire. Icrask's shields took the brunt of the fire, and fired back. Unlike Icrask, the man who fired might as well have been naked, with the shot tearing through his gut and dropping him to the floor, followed by another through the sternum that put him down for good. The other four were a different story: Ocroth's team opened fire, but these ones  _were_ equipped with kinetic barriers, and took the brunt of the hits. Not that it mattered, as all the shields did was delay their deaths by a few seconds, and they soon joined their compatriot on the ground, pools of blood joining into one big lake of essence around them.

"Basement is clear, Op2," Ocroth confirmed, "Mop up the house and call it in. Get the  _Feksogar_ to send a clean up crew. We have a lot of bodies, and I'm sure they just can't wait to stick their faces on this week's propaganda reel." He could barely keep the contempt from leaking into his tone.

Brolo noticed it, but didn't comment on it. In truth, he shared his contempt, "Understood, sir."

"Sir," one of Icrask's men called out, grabbing his attention, "We've come across the fucking motherload here. I think we've raided a munitions depot."

Ocroth hadn't had much time to take in his surroundings as he was clearing it, but now that he had, his eyes widened at the amount of stock that was stashed down here: Icrask's man was right, this was a munitions depot. Moving over to where he was standing, he saw an open crate full of military-grade kinetic barriers, at least eighty of them, resting ontop of three more crates that likely had even more. Placing his rifle down ontop of the crate, he moved over and popped the seals on the rightmost crate, finding a shitload of Nectra SMGs and Tactyl battle rifles. Each crate was stamped with the Hegemony insignia, along with the words 'Property of the Regent and the Batarian State'.

_Stolen military stockpiles. How many safehouses have basements filled with these? Did we just raid an SRA staging base?_

Moving over and popping open another crate, he found dozens of fragmentation grenades...even some napalm and  _Jewek-KJ_  gas grenades.  _Jewek-KJ_ was a deadly gas that caused total respiratory collapse in those who inhaled it, and was banned by the Citadel Conventions: not that the Hegemony cared. At least fifty or so crates of these littered the room, within them containing any assortment of weapons.

"Holy fucking shit," Icrask exclaimed.

Ocroth turned around, and his eyes widened even further as he watched him pull out the thermal chain belt for a SE-06  _Celto-Pracht_ general-purpose heavy machine gun, a weapon so powerful it had to be mounted, and whose .50 caliber rounds could shred a skycar's hood and tear through 30 inches of steel. Icrask looked like he was in love, but also in awe as well. Ocroth didn't blame him. How the SRA managed to nab one of these was a mystery, not to mention smuggle what looked like four of them to this hideout.

"The  _Feksogar_ made no mention of this," Icrask queried.

"They knew," Ocroth declared, shaking his head, "They absolutely fucking knew. This was a repossession op. Sent in the varren to clean up their fucking mess."

Icrask looked at him with wide eyes of realization, "You think...you think they're the ones the SRA stole it from? I did hear rumors of a  _Feksogar_ convoy being hit. You think...?"

He turned to Icrask, his glare piercing, "No, I think they're the ones who  _gave_ it to them.  _Feksogar_ has been compromised ever since the war. They know it, and they can't control it. My bet is that they have traitors in their ranks. That convoy that was hit was transferring weapons and materials from Prag'pador after it was attacked. The government knew it was compromised, and had them move the munitions to their Plan-B facility. I think the SRA was counting on exactly that."

Icrask nodded, "They hit Prag'pador to bring the convoy out into the open. They knew they wouldn't have the time to raid the facility and extract all the more materials before the military responded and cut off their escape, so they took the antimatter bomb to scare command into moving the munitions via convoy, and then had their agents in the  _Feksogar_ betray the convoy's location. Then they attacked the convoy.  _Feksogar_ knows that and sent us to get their shit back."

"Like I said," Ocroth growled, lashing out with a firm kick to one of the crates, picking up his rifle as he holstered it on his back, "Cleaning up their fucking mess."

"This isn't all of it," Icrask noted, "This basement...its too small to contain some of the bigger weapons they raided from that convoy. They must have numerous safe houses scattered across the planet. Some of it might even be off-world by now."

"They've probably got us SIU raiding houses like this one as we speak," Ocroth muttered. Finally, after a minute, he reached up to his comm, signalling Brolo, "Op2, get the Director on the horn. Tell them I want to know exactly why the fuck my men were sent out to retrieve these weapons when we've got SRA running around with their nuclear toys."

"Got it, boss."

Silence filled the room once more, Icrask's three men securing the crates while Icrask and Ocroth paced around the room. Icrask nudged one of the corpses, while Ocroth went over their revelation in his head. One thing didn't make sense to him. One detail stuck out. And he just couldn't get it out of his head.

He decided to voice his concern, "I don't get it. Why raid the convoy?"

"I thought it was obvious," Icrask offered.

"No shit," Ocroth returned sharply, crossing his arms as he leaned against the crates behind him, "That's the surface-level explanation. Think deeper. Why would the SRA, still in its infancy, risk attacking a classified Hegemony military facility that most people think is a myth, steal a WMD, and then attack a high-value convoy? The SRA is smarter than that. They know we'll retaliate, and their attacks so far have been limited to low level hit-and-runs and assassinations. They know they're not ready for full-scale war yet. They wouldn't be stupid enough to bite off more than they can chew."

"Rogue element, maybe?" Icrask returned, standing up, "Rebels have them all the time. Extremists who go too far for the cause. Perhaps a rogue cell thought it was time for an escalation."

"No, this was too coordinated for a rogue cell," Ocroth dismissed, "They knew exactly what they were looking for, where to find it and how to get it. Something simply doesn't add up. Let's back up a bit...they stole an antimatter bomb to make us believe our auxiliary arsenal was compromised..."

Icrask quickly caught on, "What have they done with the bomb? They didn't return it once they got what they wanted."

"Which means they always planned on using the bomb," Ocroth concluded, "The convoy was just a bonus. A consequence of operation."

"Wait..." Icrask piped up, frowning deeply as he eyed one of the bodies below them, whose red blood was now caking the floor around their boots. He looked back at Ocroth, "...didn't the guard upstairs mention a package?"

Ocroth nodded, eyes widening as he quickly hailed Brolo again, "Op2, stop what you're doing and run a GPS calculation for me."

"Sure thing, boss," Brolo immediately relented, "What am I looking for?"

"The Cad'gerk mountains," he replied, "Which of the safe houses being raided is closest to those mountains?"

Obviously confused by the question, but nonetheless complying with it, Brolo ran the calculations. A few seconds later, he came back with his answer, "Well...ours is, sir. We're the closest city to Cad'gerk."

_By the Pillars...that means..._

There was a cough, a wet, disgusting sound, followed by the sound of a click. Whirling around, he watched the head of one of the men he had killed, the one who had escaped the flashbang, fall back to the ground, eyes slowly sliding shut. His four eyes trailed down to the man's hand that lied at his side...

...and found a switch.

A beep could be heard from his right. Both he and Icrask turned to the source, finding one of the crates, by far the largest, beginning to glow a bright purple. Only one type of device glowed that kind of color, especially one that big.

Ocroth turned to Icrask, eyes widened to their greatest extent. He brought up his comms, "Brolo, get your men out of the house! Contact Supreme Command, and tell them we need to begin evacuation of-"

Khar'Shan's surface was scarred deeply. The planet was once an ideal garden world, vibrant in color. Industrialization across the planet had tainted that beauty, but only the orbital bombardment and desolation brought by the Reapers had managed to transform the garden sheen of the planet's biosphere into a sickly, muddy brown that more resembled an aging, dying world. As such, the light pollution that had once lit up the entirety of Khar'Shan, to the point of being visible from space, had been snuffed out. Only a few lights lit up the surface now, and most were barely visible from orbit.

But one light stood out. One, bright light. It was purple, and colossal in size. It lit up part of a continent in a flash so bright that its phosphorescence must have covered kilometers upon kilometers of landscape. It looked like a gigantic firework had gone off...

...but the truth was far more insidious. That great light, that beautiful purple glow...represented the instantaneous death of over one hundred and fifty thousand people. That light consumed the kilometers of land that it covered, devouring it and leaving nothing but craters behind. It was the kind of deathly radiance that left no corpses, no DNA and no fallout. It was the greatest weapon ever built by organics. It was a weapon that, so powerful in its scale, had snuffed out a hundred thousand lives in an instant, without those people even knowing they were dead.

That light was a butchery. A gunshot in the darkness. A first strike.

And with it, a civil war had begun...in more ways than one.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**...did I not say Balak's death would pale in comparison to what I have next?** _

_**Here I am, again, proving that I'm not dead. And neither is this story. In fact, things are just ramping up. Balak is dead, Conrad knows where Shepard stands, Shepard knows where Garrus stands, Tali knows where Garrus stands...and thousands of people on Khar'Shan simply aren't around to stand anymore. This poor galaxy just can't catch a break, can it? Well, the ball is now rolling, so it'll only get worse for the Normandy crew I'm afraid.** _

_**Well, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As per usual, I've got another Flashpoint prompt I'll be doing before I move onto Chapter 10, so please just bare with me. I hope I'm making it worth the wait.** _

_**With that said, some music suggestions, as always:** _

**Conrad's Visit: "Throw Hell At Him" by Rupert-Gregson Williams from the film** _**Hacksaw Ridge.** _

**The Argument: "Interrogating Blackburn" by Johan Skugge and Jukka Rintamäki from the game** _**Battlefield 3.** _

**Shepard/Tali Talk: "Of Helplessness" by Elliot Goldenthal from the film** _**Heat** _ **.**

 **The Bombing: "Start a War" by Hildur Guðnadóttir from the film** _**Sicario 2: Day of the Soldado.** _


	11. Extreme Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Council helps the Hegemony in the aftermath of the Kepcedah Bombing. Shepard suffers the consequences of his inaction. The Samaritan has a major epiphany.

" _The cynicism that regards hero worship as comical is always shadowed by a sense of physical inferiority._ " - Yukio Mishima.

* * *

 _"Ground Zero", Kepcedah, Khar'Shan - January 20, 2188 - The day after the Kepcedah Incident_.

The joint Hegemony-Council task force was off to a great start.

To James Vega, the idea of the Systems Alliance, a government whose principles and ideology he strongly believed in, teaming up with its arch nemesis, its morally rephrensible counterpart...it disgusted him. Since the Alliance first revealed itself and stepped onto the galactic scene, the Batarian Hegemony had made a mission out of destroying humanity's chances at interstellar influence and having a say in galactic politics. The batarians had viewed them as the new kids on the block...as such, they thought the infant Alliance would be vulnerable, fragmented, unsure of itself...and as a result, ripe for slaver raids. They might have been right...but they picked the wrong species to fuck with. Humans don't just roll over...when they want something, they'll do anything to get it. Their selfishness as a species is mostly a weakness, but in times such as those, it was a strength.

The Alliance's war with the turians had been a blessing in disguise. They had gone toe-to-toe with the most professional, well-supplied and powerful military force the galaxy had ever seen before the Reapers. While their eventual defeat had been inevitable, they had held out for over a month against superior numbers and manpower. That encounter had prepared the Alliance for what was to come, and as a result of the First Contact War and the lessons learnt from the humiliating defeat on Shanxi, their military was significantly overhauled, taking lessons from the United States of America of the 21st century. What formed in the next few years was a highly regimented and experienced fighting force. So when the batarians decided to take a bite out of the human pie, they were met with surprise.

The Skyllian Blitz was a decisive blow to the Hegemony, and discomfitured them before the galactic scene. Not only had they lost battle after battle to a fresh, relatively new power, but they had even been forced to ask for an armistice when the Alliance pushed them so far back that they were beginning to lay siege to batarian worlds: the fall of Torfan, the Hegemony's signature military shipyard and key strategic base for the sector, had forced the Supreme Regent to beg the Prime Minister for a cessation of hostilities. The Alliance had not only proved their ability to defend their colonies, but demonstrated to those who were ready to strike that they would not take a beating lying down, and that when they struck back, they'd do so hard, fast and without mercy. The Blitz was a defining moment in human history: the first decisive human victory against an alien power since the First Contact War. They had wiped clean the embarassment that was Shanxi. Now  _they_ were dictating terms of surrender. Not only that, but to a power that was centuries older than them. A power that had been at the height of its power and waging wars while Europe was still fighting amongst itself, the New World had only just been discovered, and the Ming dynasty ruled over China.

It was hard for humans not to develop an ego over that. It was empowering. They weren't just new kids anymore: they were kids who had proven their mettle. Even the turians took notice, and despite the anomosity that still existed between humans and turians for the First Contact War, nothing united them together more than their shared hatred of the Batarian Hegemony. The turians respected humanity's will and spirit to keep fighting no matter the odds, which meant a lot coming from such a disciplined, jaded and stoic society such as theirs. Humanity benefitted greatly, while the batarian reputation descended into the toilet. Ever since then...human-batarian diplomatic relations were so tense that one could cut through it with a knife. Alliance Command was positive that another war with the Hegemony, this one far more devastating, was ineludible. The batarians were a proud people, and they would demand vengeance. Since then, their military had only gotten stronger, and with it, the batarians only smarter. Command believed that a batarian attack was taking place on June 2, 2186 when the Hegemony suddenly went silent and Alliance colonies along its border started going dark. Torfan, one of the worlds surrendered to the Alliance as part of the Treaty of Torfan that ended the Blitz, was the final straw...confirming in Parliament's eyes that an invasion was underway, and the Prime Minister was to announce a declaration of war that day.

The rest, of course, is history. Only two hours later would they realize it wasn't an Hegemony invasion: it was the Reapers. The Hegemony had been decimated, and then the Reapers came for them. The war consumed the galaxy, enemies became begrudging allies overnight in the name of survival, and Hegemony soldiers and Alliance marines fought side by side for the first, and what James thought to be, the last time. Shepard knew it, Ashley knew it, James knew it...once the Reapers were defeated,  _if_ they were, and anything remained of batarian and human civilization, they would become enemies again...there was simply no escaping that truth.

But that day wasn't today. And, most importantly, Alliance marines would once again be deploying onto a batarian world not to fight its inhabitants, but to help them. It was a truly baffling, uncompromisingly outlandish situation, and yet here they were.

The M41B Smoothhound APC jerked back and forth violently, and the sensation was like being grabbed by the arms and shaken back into reality by an angry mother whose lecture he had zoned out from. He blinked, wiping away what he initially thought was condensation gathering on the exterior of his helmet's visor. Quickly growing irritated when it wouldn't go away, he reached down to the clasps at the base of his jaw and popped them, allowing him to remove his helmet. It was from this action alone that allowed him to realize that a) it wasn't condensation, it was sweat and b) it was coming from the inside of his helmet, not the outside. All of this he realized as he wiped his soaking wet face down with an armoured glove, while more of the lukewarm, salty substance dripped from his helmet. It would appear his internal airconditioning was malfunctioning, or the ninety percent humidity on this hellish planet was overwhelming its ability to cool him down. Suits like these were designed to operate in environments similar to Earth, after all. Guess that's what you get when heavy overeliance on industrialization has basically fucked your atmosphere centuries ago, allowing pure, nearly unfiltered UV light to boil the surface. The batarians may have adapted to it, but James Vega just couldn't wait to get out of here. Sure, he had grown up along the Pacific coast in California, but that was acceptable levels of calefaction. This was on a whole different level, that's for sure.

The APC shook again, James reaching down to grab the edge of his seat to stop himself from falling off. The terrain their vehicle was traversing was less than ideal: the road was littered with pot holes, some of them several inches deep, dust and grit chewed up by the war machine's massive tires and shot up into the air in suffocating, blinding plumes. This road was supposed to be a rural road, but it looked about as poorly maintained as a slums' driveway. It wasn't even properly concreted, or at the very least the government could have filled in the pot holes. Instead, whoever used this road, if they weren't using skycars, wasn't going to have an enjoyable time. The only reason they were able to traverse it with barely any trouble was because the Smoothhound was designed to surmount obstacles such as this.

The Smoothhound was much like James himself: big and bulky, decked in thick reactive armor for protection, and armed with an M47-J Redfox autocannon mounted towards the front. Its massive eight tires, four at the front and four at the back, could flatten a skycar under their monstrous weight. It was an instrument of death such as this that made James feel right at home. It was no M35 Mako, but its heavy armor plating and pinpoint accurate autocannon that could tear a krogan warlord into bloody ribbons would be a welcome place for any marine. It also came equipped with two Mark VII vehicle-grade kinetic barriers, which could withstand the salvo of six gunships before buckling. Most of these were improvements made over the older M41A model, which the Alliance had sold in excess to the asari and hanar. The M41B was designed for crew survivability, ensuring that its passenger complement would live to see the battlefield they were being transported to, and from.

James prided himself on being just that: a hulking mechanism of death and destruction. The Systems Alliance Marine Corps ideal, inspired heavily by its spiritual predecessor of the United States Marine Corps, was that marines were ministers of death, their rifles their spouses, and their gear an extension of their spirit, soul and body. James had spent almost every single second of his career living up to that very concept. His weapon of choice was the M-76 Revenant light machine gun because of its high rate of fire. His armor was that of the Defender family: a Lionhead experiment on the standard issue HYPERION-87 combat armor that all marines were issued with that slapped a whole bunch of thick metal plating onto, was slotted with a larger and more powerful kinetic barrier, and had an array of extra real-time combat suites modelled after equivalent krogan protection systems that would allow the user to complete tasks the standard marine couldn't. The Defender rarely saw use outside of the 202nd Frontier Division (to the point that it was mockingly called the "202nd's Beer Belly"), but James was lucky in that it got it specially ordered for him following his actions on Fehl Prime that earned him minor celebrity status among the military.

He must have looked like a fish out of water. The Smoothhound he was seated in had a passenger complement of forty if maxed to capacity, but currently seated twenty: a quarter of his unit. Most of them were seated quite comfortably at the back, their helmets resting in their laps, Avenger assault rifles standing up and tucked between their legs, either engaged in conversation or staying completely quiet, minding their own business. One marine was playing around on his omni-tool, while another was emulating James in wiping the sweat from the back of her neck. All of them wore HYPERION-87 armor, while their commanding officer, Captain James Vega, sat towards the loading hatch in (quite frankly) massive blue-and-black Defender armor, his equally enormous LMG neatly against his left leg, held in place by one firm, gauntleted hand. He must have looked like a medieval knight; decked in thick plate, elongated broadsword resting beside him, featureless helmet looking to convey the narrative of a man who was permanently resting in thirsty-for-blood mode.

However, upon closer inspection, one could see that the marines' expressions weren't that of exasperation, mirth or disgust. No, they were curious, awed or honored. James felt he knew why. He wasn't just any marine, after all...he was the marine who had served with Commander Shepard, hero of the Alliance and poster child for the Marine Corps. The man every marine aspired to be when they signed up. It really was a soldier's dream: sign up to travel the galaxy, meet cool aliens and shoot the shit out of the bad guys. It was the kind of romanticism that even James had been caught up in admittedly. When he had been told nearly two years ago, after what he had then-seen as the disastrous mission on Fehl Prime, that he would be assigned as Shepard's guard during his house arrest on Earth after the Bahak incident...he had been flabbergasted. Here he was, some nobody, a random jarhead, and he was chosen to protect and guard humanity's champion. He didn't know what to expect.

But from that point on, it had nothing but one ride after the next. Six months later, the Reapers came, James went from Shepard's guard to his subordinate, and he was living the very same dream that every marine in the service had wanted a taste of so badly. There had been some rough patches, for sure. James and Shepard didn't start off on the right foot, butting heads occasionally over operational decisions and Shepard's overly curious nature. James had wanted to stay and fight on Earth, and, ashamedly, had viewed Shepard leaving as cowardice and desertion. But as time went on, the war furthered and he got to know Shepard and his crew better...James knew he was beginning to see why his crew were so devoutly loyal. Why none of his crew had ever betrayed him, or why they were so willing to drop everything at the drop of a hat to rush to his aid. If Shepard asked them to jump off a bridge...the typical response would be 'how high, where from and what should I do afterwards.' James not only came to see it, but became a part of it. He wasn't exaclty part of the inner circle...Shepard's most trusted of friends. But he liked to think he was not only a member of the famed Normandy squad, but a part of the larger family as a whole.

Leaving the  _Normandy_ after the war had been difficult. But with the Alliance surrendering the  _Normandy_ to the Council as a good will gesture, and James being an Alliance military member, he had no choice. However, what hadn't been as difficult was to pursue what Shepard had encouraged him to do during the war, and that was to follow up on his N7 commendation. To be asked to join the elite special forces of the Alliance military, a prestigious group that Shepard was a part of, was not something every marine was afforded, and that meant that the Interplanetary Combatives Academy had seen something special in him. He hadn't wasted anytime in enlisting, and over a year later, he had been promoted to Captain, given command of his own company, and had reached N4 in his training. Entering the program hadn't been hard: once it was noticed that Shepard himself had given a personal recommendation, and a quick read over of his service record during the war was seen, James was admitted almost immediately.

James hadn't thought he'd ever recover from Fehl Prime. Losing his entire squad, sacrificing civilians for intel that ultimately proved to be worthless...it was an enlisted officer's nightmare. But he had recovered...not only that, he had excelled well and beyond. He was determined to make Shepard and his uncle, Emilio Vega, proud. He was going to show the brass that he had earned his place among Shepard's squad for a reason, and that he would do whatever it took to prove himself worthy of his commendations. He refused to allow the people he trusted, and who trusted him in return, to be let down.

_Not sure what Shepard saw in a jarhead like me, but here I am. Best to make use of it. No use searching for answers to a question I don't need answered. If it helps me become the man I need and want to be, then fuck the rest. 'Por siempre lo mejor, solo lo mejor', that's what my uncle always used to say._

The APC rocked hard again, this time far more severely, the vehicle seemingly collapsing to the left side for a moment before righting itself again. The movement jostled the entire vehicle, forcing the passengers to stop whatever they were doing to grab hold of something until it stopped. A few seconds later, it did, and the squad returned to their conversations. James had to think that the rest of the company, separated into three more APCs bringing up the center and rear, weren't having much luck either, with their occupants being tossed around like food inside a blender. Of course, they wouldn't be in this situation if they had simply flown here via gunship...but that's what happens when the Alliance wants to avoid a diplomatic incident and has to appease batarian paranoia to ward off suspicion.

Just because the Hegemony and Alliance were currently working together doesn't mean they were friends by any stretch of the imagination. The patriotic constituents of both sides' governments were driven by extreme hatred for one another, which went hand-in-hand with humanity and the batarians exchanging obloquys, derision, contempt, and many other negatively associated emotions. It wasn't hard to see why: they couldn't have been more polar opposites. The Alliance was a biparistan parliamentary democracy with a bill of rights, while the Hegemony was a totalitarian unitary state bordering on military junta whose ruler, the Supreme Regent, had absolute supremacy over his people. The Alliance military was a well organized, compartmentalized and well-oiled war machine, while the Hegemony Defense Force was disorganized fight club where commanders fought for dominance over their subordinates, usually engaged in slave grabs and was designed to maintain an empire and suppress rebellions. The Alliance fought for freedom, liberty, justice and a quality of life. The Hegemony fought for self-interest, political advancement of ideology and influence, oppression and maintenance of the status quo. There was hardly a single thing either side fought for that they could agree upon.

So could they ever be friends? With the Hegemony in the picture, not a chance. James had heard that the batarians were once governed under a constitutional monarchy: a Republic created at the beginning of batarian spaceflight and at the end of a period where Khar'Shan was dominated by global monarchies. The batarian kingdoms were dissolved, with the King of Khar'Shan sharing power with the senate. The batarians were a respected, valued member of society with a powerful empire, a mighty military and a strong economy and rich culture. But then they foolishly went to war with the quarians. That, combined with a massive civil war between the republicans and the ultranationalists, brought an end to the Republic. The ultranationalists were victorious, and the Hegemony replaced the Republic: and since then, the batarians had been ruled under a degenerative, ailing government ever since. He felt sorry for the people ruled under the Hegemony; the same people who had never known a better life. Perhaps one day they would.

It was that distinct lack of a friendship that made it extremely difficult for the batarians to make allies. Their institutionalized, state-supported isolationism and xenophobia made them a troublesome conversationalist at best, and having a military that openly participated in slave grab operations and regular planetary sacking was not something the Council wanted in charge of peacekeeping duties and participating in galactic governance. The Hegemony was also a bit of a sore loser: prior to being forced to surrender, the Hegemony had sent envoys to practically beg them to intervene, even demanding military support from the turians. When the Council flat out told them to fix their own problems, the batarians surrendered, then closed their embassy on the Citadel, severed all further diplomatic ties to the Citadel and retreated back behind their borders: the first time any government had done so since the Renegade Crisis between the Council and the Krogan Empire. Suffice to say, the batarians were not content with losing, and were outwardly suspicious of all aliens. They never asked for help...not even when the Reapers essentially obliterated their civilization. They even refused help in reconstruction efforts, keeping to themselves.

The Hegemony allowing Council military intervention inside their space was a warning sign that the government was nearing collapse. Everyone knew it: the Reapers had wiped out the parts of the government and military leadership that posed any threat, and the Collector had taken care of the last remaining one. The Hegemony was on its last legs, and it knew that, in order to survive, it would need help. Devastated by the war or not, the other galactic powers were still in better shape than they were, and they knew it. They were setting aside their pride and reluctantly asking for assistance.

James wouldn't pretend it was an olive branch. This was an act of desperation, not a change of heart. The proof was in the pudding from the moment the Hegemony military laid down the ground rules. The Council forces weren't allowed to establish their own base of operations from which to conduct counterinsurgency activities, and would have to base them from an existing HDF installation. They also wouldn't be allowed to transport troops across the planet via aircraft, as the batarians wanted to limit the Council presence there as much as possible, and didn't want to give them access to Khar'Shani air space. James and his men had learned this in abundance: they had been transported via kodiak shuttle from the SSV  _Tobruk_ straight to Fort Behj. Their commander had wanted to take the shuttle straight to the bomb site, but the Hegemony forces there insisted on ground transport. So they'd been forced to call down a few M41 Smoothhounds, and had gone from there.

His men weren't happy about it: it was bad enough that they'd all rather be somewhere else than this shithole, but now they were being bossed around by their enemies when it should have been them calling the shots. Most of them, the veterans didn't comment on it...they were used to being kicked around and tossed in the shitter. Most of those were veterans of the Reaper War, and James could bet at least one or two of them fought in the Battle of London. The rest were likely raw recruits: FNGs from across the colonies filling in for the depleted manpower the Alliance was left with post-war. The Alliance were behind the Hierarchy and Hegemony in terms of military personnel lost, but were only just behind. In total, they had lost 12 million troops...just a little over three quarters of their total forces. It came as no surprise most Alliance servicemen nowadays were replacements.

Of course...the Hierarchy's own tremendous loss of manpower and servicemen was why James was even here to begin with. The Turian Hierarchy had gotten around for centuries as the galaxy's sole peacekeeping power, because its military was the largest and most powerful out of any species. The Reaper War had changed that, and while they were still a power to be reckoned with, they could no longer shoulder the burden of enforcing interstellar peace any longer. The Alliance had been more than willing to step up to the plate, leading to the signing of the Pact of Iron: a joint agreement between the Commune of the Hierarchs, and the Parliament of Earth, to share peacekeeping duties. And as peacekeepers, they were the first the Council went to to deal with the developing situation on Khar'Shan. And a development it was.

With the assassination of Ka'hairal Balak (the Alliance's public enemy number one, so no love lost there) and the confirmation of Shepardist ties to the Slave Revolutionary Army, the Council was given no choice but to intervene. The Council's crackdown on the Faith of the Crusader was no secret at this point: the media had been quick to publicize the attacks on cult facilities across Council-held space. Even the massacre outside Aria's Afterlife on Omega had made headlines. The Shepardists were becoming the Council's first enemy post-Reaper War, and with their financing of the SRA, it was a chance to do damage that they simply couldn't ignore.

Regardless though, when it came to the Shepardist situation, there was no one James was more concerned for than the organization's namesake. He knew the man personally, and by virtue of that alone, he knew the former commander likely wasn't responding well to his name being dragged through the dirt like that. Nobody but delusional psychopaths liked having their name brought into the cultist sphere, and even less when its attached to terms like 'terrorism' and 'massacre'. He found it funny just how much he missed the  _Normandy_  and having Shepard in command. If the Shepardists had been around then...oh boy, they wouldn't have survived.

But, alas, the team was largely broken up. Shepard and Tali were on Rannoch, Garrus and Kasumi were left to continue the fight with what few crew stayed, and the rest were scattered across the galaxy, putting the pieces back together. Winning the war had been difficult, but rebuilding was an entirely different hurdle for them to leap. James had to admit that peacekeeping duties had been somewhat boring. While being posted on a ship meant he saw more excitement than the typical Colonial Guard grunt, it still wasn't the thick of the action. It was times like that, where he had time to contemplate, that he wished things hadn't changed. That he had gotten to know the  _Normandy_ crew a little while longer. To have a few more adventures.

 _"All adventures come to an end, Vega. I plan to be there for the end. Because the end is worth all the adventuring."_ He had remembered Shepard saying that to him just before the final battle. James hadn't agreed with him, but he understood why Shepard believed it. James had incorrectly surmized that he and Shepard were cut from the same cloth. Soldiers whose only devotion was to the marines, whose only goal was to hone their craft, and whose only destiny was death on the battlefield. And while he was partly right, he had failed to figure out Shepard's endgame. The reason why he insisted on being the best he could be. Why he strived for excellence in everything. Why every battle wasn't allowed to be his last...he was fighting for a future. He had a woman he loved...someone to see him through to the end. Shepard's priorities had changed. James saw that now. So while he didn't agree with Shepard's motivations...he did understand. Even if James had no intention of retiring anytime soon.

So he felt sorry for Shepard. He believed his time had come, and was ready for peace...but the galaxy wasn't. They weren't prepared to accept their hero quietly disappearing from the lime light. Everybody wanted an icon to look up to, to remind them that safety was within their reach. They had chosen Shepard to be that icon, and wouldn't accept him turning that down. Those people created a cult. Those people promoted violence to further their goals. They were deluded, despicable people. And Shepard had indirectly created them, willingly or not. That man had enough to keep him awake at night, no doubt...he didn't need nightmares of shopping centers being blown up by people claiming to be his disciples to haunt him as well.

_Don't worry, Loco. We'll find those hijos de putas and put a stop to them. The Good Samaritan can't hide forever, and with the entire Council out looking for him...not even a bunch of crazies can stand up to the combined power of four Council militaries, right?_

James had never been more certain in his life. He was going to do what he did best: blow up his problems. He shared that with Shepard, at least. And once he finished his N7 training, he would be one step closer to finding more bad guys to blow up. He just hoped one of them was the Good Samaritan.

But, for now, he was here helping the bad guys. At first, he had thought it was for all the wrong reasons. After all, their enemies were the Shepardists, not the slaves. The Alliance should have been giving them weapons and material to help them overthrow the Regent, but instead, they were putting boots on the ground alongside Hegemony troops to crush a rebellion that was no concern of theirs. At least, that's how he had seen it. But then he had been debriefed by the battalion commander before deployment, and that entire opinion had changed. James had never seen Lieutenant Jing's, Vega's second-in-command, face turn so pale before.

In truth, James had felt the specter of that revelation hang drearily over his head ever since that debrief as well. The magnitude of what they were going to be walking into simply couldn't be described with words. It was a horror that had to be witnessed for its scale to be truly appreciated. James liked to think he had seen the worst war had to offer...he hadn't.

The APC rocked to a halt, The vehicle jerking, this time in a forward motion, one final time before resting in place, the low hum of its engine the only sound echoing through the cabin. A few seconds later, a loud bang could be heard coming from the driver's compartment, and James knew that they had reached their destination. With a sigh, he turned to his men, fastening his helmet back over his head, ignoring the fresh sweat dripping down his face, "Okay boys, you know the dance. Fall out and group up with your company. Let's go, let's go, let's go!"

The loading bay door lowered as he uttered these words, landing with a crunch as he finished. Grabbing his LMG and holstering it on his back, he was the first out of the vehicle, the rest of his men following not far behind. Rocks and gravel crunched beneath his boots, the overwhelmigly strong smell of sulfur nearly making him gag, if not for the air filter in his helmet. The sky was the color of canted rust: a depressing sheet of brown and orange that shrouded the planet in a bleak blanket of foreboding. James felt claustrophobic just standing there, almost like the planet was closing around him oppressively, squeezing him of his last breath. Seeing it from behind the walls of a military fortress was one thing...seeing it beyond four walls, in an open plain, was another.

The last three APCs parked next to theirs, loading bays opening to deposit their own passenger loads. As the company gathered around him, he continued to survey the landscape: the Hegemony had set up fences around the entire site, with checkpoints at every road leading in here. Hegemony troops patrolled the perimeter fence, with 'keep out' and 'trespassers will be shot' signs written in Khar (the batarian language) stuck in the ground. Some of the guards looked thoroughly disinterested in what was going on: as if the melancholy atmosphere of the planet was having the same demoralizing effect on them as it did on foreigners.

Or perhaps it was the gargantuan site itself that they were forced to so meticulously guard.

As James turned around to take it all in, he had to remind himself of where he stood. To the average visitor, all one would see is a gigantic crater, one that was kilometers in width, and at least a kilometer in depth. It looked as if an asteroid had slammed into it, vaporizing the point of impact entirely of anything that had previously existed there. It looked as much a part of the landscape and as ancient as the Chicxulub crater in Mexico on Earth. The only amazement would stem from the sheer size of it...so big that over a dozen  _Sovereign-_ class Reapers could lie inside it and barely fill it. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Until one realized that, up until yesterday, the crater used to be a city.

It was horrifying to put into perspective...James had never seen anything quite like it. On the horizon, the unaffected parts of the city could be seen dotting the perimeter of the crater. The zone around the crater's edge was dangerously close to collapse: skyscrapers, their sides blackened by the intense antimatter flash, teetering over the side as they threatened to fall in. Some buildings that survived the blast already had, their wreckage littered across the sides of the man-made formation before coming to rest at the very bottom. The rest of the city was abandoned: no lights could be seen, and much of it looked like a ghost town. No doubt the Hegemony had evacuated it for fear the rest of the city, what little of it remained, would suffer from sinkholes due to their close proximity to the site.

This is what the Hegemony was calling the 'Ground Zero' for the Kepcedah Bombing. This was where the SRA had detonated an antimatter bomb...and killed one hundred and fifty thousand people. This city, Kepcedah, was the capital of Khar'Shan. Or, at least, it had been until yesterday. Now it was as silent and haunted as the crypt. The batarians had been forced to relocate their capital to Rekalhafg, although many already considered that the capital because that was where the Supreme Regent's Palace was actually located in the first place. So, in a way, all they had done was make Rekalhafg the official capital.

James would have remained his helmet out of respect had it been safe to do so. Antimatter radiation was notoriously deadly, being a hundred times more harmful than any nuclear equivalent. As a result, the entire site had been cordoned off for kilometers around and quarantined, while the city was evacuated. While extremely dangerous however, antimatter radiation didn't last anywhere near long enough to produce fallout, and usually dissipated anywhere between a few minutes to a few hours after any explosion, no matter the size. Still, the batarians were taking no chances, and wouldn't lift any quarantine until they were one hundred percent certain any radiation had been eliminated. James couldn't really blame them. Better overly cautious than completely dead.

"Holy shit, sir," came the voice of one marine, Private Myers, from behind him, his voice sounding just as horrified as James, and likely the rest of G company, felt, "An antimatter bomb did that?"

"Scary, eh?" came the voice of a female marine, Corporal Heimann, "If it wasn't for our presence here, I'd have thought we dropped it. Fucking blinks deserve it."

As much as he might have agreed with the marine's sentiment, their location and the fact they were surrounded by those same 'blinks' she was referring to derogatorily meant that now wasn't the time for insults, and it wasn't time for loud mouths, "Stow it, corporal. Form up with the rest of the company,  _now_."

James liked to be an open book. While he had always been gungho and full of the typical high-on-post-combat-adrenaline that marines were usually filled with, Shepard had changed that into something more. He made an effort to talk with the troops under his command, to get to know them the best way he could, and relate with them. As a result, most of G company saw him as a friend of sorts: a commander who would look out for them. But when he had to be stern, as all commanders needed to do sometimes, they knew their place was as subordinates, not equals. At the end of the day, he was their ranking officer, and opinions had to be set aside when he gave orders.

Heimann and Myers understood this thankfully, and immediately snapped salutes, "Yes, captain! Sorry, captain!" They then rushed to join the rest of the eighty or so marines gathering around the transports, with James following not far behind. The battalion commander had made it clear this was his show, and he would run it as tightly as he could. With batarians all around them, he had to be on his guard. After all, this alliance was a tenuous one at best.

_They're not our friends. Keep them at arm's length, and trust them only as far as I can throw them. Task force or no task force, no Hegemony soldier is our friend. Vigilance is key. Those pendejos fuck with my men, I'll fuck them up._

Suffice it to say, James would be watching his back judiciously.

It didn't take long for the men to get into formation, rifles on their backs and standing firmly at parade rest, heads held up high. Normally, protocol would have them to remove any helmets they were wearing to tuck under their arm, but given where they were, such protocols were given a miss, so the helmets stayed on. Regardless of this exemption however, the marines of this company had been so well trained that, helmet or no helmet, they assumed the appropriate stance without a hint of hesitation. It was drilled into them. It was as natural as breathing. These soldiers could stand in parade rest for hours on end had James been inclined to order them to do so. Luckily for them, that would not be necessary.

Arriving infront of them, arms at his side, he addressed the company, making sure to raise his voice so he could be heard by the entire company, "G company, as you see before you today, we're in one hell of a crazy place. When we all signed up for the service, I doubt we had guarding craters in mind, but that's our duty today. The Alliance has decided its in our best interests to help the Hegemony of Khar'Shan, and so we will. You may not like it. Some, if not all of you, might even hold some resentment for the soldiers you'll be working with. I'm asking you, as your commander, to shelve that hatred for now and think about the present. A big fucking bomb has killed one hundred and fifty thousand people," he pivoted to allow the men to focus on the full scope of what they would be patrolling before turning back to them, allowing enough of a glimpse to paint an ugly picture, "The SRA are responsible and, with them, the Shepardists who funded them. Say what you will about Commander Shepard, but I can tell you this: I know the man. He does  _not_ support the Faith, so neither should you. They are terrorists, and therefore our enemy. Those are the facts. So I say we do our job, and the faster we get on with it, the sooner we can return to our posting, or get some well deserved R'n'R. How does that sound, marines?"

"Mighty fucking fine, sir," Lieutenant Jing responded appropriately, the deceptively small asian man standing infront of the rest of the men.

"Come on now," James tsked, shaking his head as all he heard was silence from the rest of the company. He turned back to them, thumping his chest with bravado, something he enjoyed doing to rile up his troops, "I don't think the dead heard you. You need to speak  _louder_. Now,  _ **how does that sound marines!?**_ "

" _MIGHTY FUCKING FINE, SIR!_ " they roared, and this time, their voices could be heard travelling across the empty abyss behind them, the small dots that represented gunships and other aircraft likely having heard it quite clearly from their end. Batarian troopers all around them turned to the source of the sound, some of them growling in discontent, while others simply turned away in disgust. James had to remember that his marines weren't the only ones who would find it difficult working with their arch rivals. After all, they were still enemies. Their hatred was just put on ice for a common foe.

"Glad to hear it," James replied, turning to his second-in-command, who immediately took notice and turned his head to look him directly in the eyes, "Lieutenant Jing, you're in charge of duty detail. Coordinate with the commander of the Hegemony garrison and coordinate patrol shifts. I recommend two-man teams spread out across the perimeter. Make sure you run everything by their commander: these batarians don't need more than one excuse to start getting violent. Create no problems, receive none. Got it?"

"Yes sir," Jing reciprocated, nodding with a salute before shouting to the rest of the company for them to move out. The formation dissipated, all eighty men following closely behind Jing as he led them to the west of the quarantine zone, where the batarian field headquarters would be. James just stood there and watched them go, knowing that he had another meeting to tend to.

Normally, James, being G company's CO, would be the one in charge of assigning duty detail and talking with the batarian commander. But before heading down to the surface, the captain of the  _Tobruk_ , Antonia Valenker, informed him that word had come down directly from FLEETCOM that a high-ranking military official from the Admiralty would be visiting the site personally. She explained that their presence there would be purely for presentation, to reassure the batarians they were taking the Kepcedah Bombing very seriously. Apparently this same high-ranking official had asked for James directly, wanting him to escort them to the field HQ once they arrived. James hadn't really asked any questions, not just because he'd find out anyway, but because those were his orders and they had come down from the top. Still, he found it odd how they asked for James by name. Not just a marine, but a specific one. Was it because of his ties to Shepard, or the fact he was in the N7 program? Either way, he was sure to find out, and turned to face the crater as he waited at the checkpoint, finding himself still taken back by the sight before him.

The scale. The horrifying expanse that stretched to the horizon, it seemed like. He felt like an insect just standing beside it. To think that entire city blocks, buildings filled with people, had once existed where this crater rested. Their lives and the infrastructure blinked out of existence in just one, brilliant flash of light. An earth-shattering boom that sent tremors across the landscape, but otherwise left no indication that life ever existed where the blast originated. It truly was a ground zero.

The Hegemony wouldn't let this slide. Killing one person, even someone as high-ranking as Balak, was one thing. But detonating a bomb that killed over a hundred thousand civilians, and obliterated their capital city...there would be blood. Military intervention would turn into full-scale war. The civil war had probably begun already...at this very moment, government forces could be clashing with the SRA, and he wouldn't even know it. Would the Council support the Hegemony then? Would they really side with their regime in a civil conflict?

"Must be a pretty sight for you, human."

He gritted his teeth heavily as he heard the unmistakably raspy voice of a batarian from behind him. He didn't bother giving the unwanted guest the decency of facing him, so the batarian deliberately placed himself in James' view, coming to stand beside him with arms crossed, joining him in mutual awe of the ground zero site. He was clad in full combat armor, save the helmet, with a holographic visor, similar to the one he saw Garrus use, positioned vertically over the two eyes on the right side of his face. He had a disgusted, loathful look about him: the very idea of a human, let alone a soldier of the Alliance, being on his homeworld and within his presence without being shot dead on the spot revolted him. The amount of contempt batarians had for humans was staggering, and the tale of how Alliance POWs were treated during the Blitz, and the human slaves they acquired in their raids, was appalling. Lashings, genital mutilations, rapings, indiscriminate killings, flaying...every malignant atrocity imaginable had been committed by the personnel of the HDF. James couldn't pretend his own species were angels, and he had seen his fair share of reports where Alliance marines were found toying and torturing batarian prisoners, but compared to the HDF...they were almost on a completely different spectrum.

"Over a hundred thousand civilians died here," he retorted angrily, ignoring the scatching look of his agitator, "Believe me, I'm not smiling."

The batarian just shrugged, "Can't trust the word of a human. Not even your expression. You're a species of liars. Self-interested bullies who don't stop until you get what you want. Your facial features can speak a thousand different narratives. I don't believe a word you say."

"You come over here looking for a fight,  _puta_?" he asked, finally turning to face the soldier as he poised his question directly to his target.

"No. I came here with questions," he admitted, arms clasping behind his back as he regarded the armoured human before him, "My commanders keep telling me I'm supposed to work with you. They hate you as much as the average batarian, but they believe stopping the SRA is more important. The unfortunate fact here is that need your help. My question to you is why the Alliance is really here. I'll be frank, you hate us. We hate you. There are no words or arguments you can use to convince me that you're helping us out of the kindess of your heart."

"Orders," he stated bluntly, a non-chalant shrug of his shoulders, "Same as you. I don't want to be here anymore than you do."

"Not you," he hissed, sounding agitated at James' dodging of his question. He couldn't help but smile at that small victory. He had riled up the smug prick, "Your leadership. Your Parliament. Your brass. Why are they here? You can't seriously believe they care about our slave revolt."

"Oh, I don't. In fact, if we're being frank?" he poised his reply as a question, but in reality, he wasn't making a request, and continued regardless of the soldier's opinion, "I'd love nothing more than to sit back and watch those slaves obtain their freedom. I'd love nothing more than to watch your government suffer from all the ill will its gathered over the centuries, and watch your planet descend into civil war. I'd love to watch your Supreme Regent and his senate of war criminals be tried and executed at a war crimes tribunal. But, in the end, this is about more than a slave revolution. I think you know what I'm talking about."

The batarian just scoffed, chuckling lightly under his breath, "Yes...the cultists. Shepard's loyal attack dogs. The man wasn't enough of a profligate...now he has his minions running around detonating antimatter bombs in population centers. Does he enjoy genocide? First the three hundred thousand he massacred at Aratoht, now the one hundred fifty here in Kepcedah. Its a pity Ka'hairal Balak didn't achieve vengeance when he had the chance."

_He had no choice, you piece of shit._

He kept that thought to himself. There was enough hostile tension in this conversation already without blows being exchanged. No doubt his own marines were currently being stretched to the absolute limits of their discipline, taunts and hateful language exchanged between the batarian and human soldiers in unhealthy amounts as both sides tried to stop each other from clawing out the throat of the other. Putting Hegemony and Alliance personnel in the same room was a volatile mix, and James was surprised that it hadn't escalated to brawling already.

"Yeah, well he didn't," James drawled, waving a dismissive hand at the soldier, "And there's no use bickering about it. You and I have a mutual enemy now. The cultists are supplying and financially supporting the SRA, which puts them in your crosshairs as much as it places it in ours. You may not like it,  _I_ may not like it, but all that matters is that we've got a common enemy at this very moment. So how about you stop trying to pick a fucking fight with me, and  _go do something useful_ , you  _pendejo_  fuck."

That was exactly the wrong thing to say, apparently. The batarian's lips parted in formation of a vicious sneer, canine teeth bared with a hiss. His top two eyes frowned in unrestrained anger, and he stepped forward aggressively, face moving inches from James' visor. The batarian was roughly James' height, and rippled with muscle, although not as thick as James' own package. Batarians were physically stronger than humans, but James was pretty well built for a marine, and could easily match his opponent if it came down to a brawl. He could already feel himself tensing, his training kicking in as the batarian became actively hostile.

Instead of punching him though, the batarian gurgled and than spat onto the dirt between them, a pool of his saliva practically melting into the blackened earth immediately. He looked back at him now, his eyes trying to bore holes through James' visor, "Shepard is responsible for this!" he pointed angrily in the crater's direction, "These cultists only do what he wants! He hates the batarian people, which is why he had his people detonate that bomb! A human did this, Captain Vega. Don't you fucking stand there and try and tell me you're innocent. Shepard is a criminal. And he  _will_ pay for his sins: the Supreme Regent will make sure of it! We don't have a common enemy...because the enemy is  _Shepard_."

That caused his blood to boil: even now, he felt the nigh uncontrollable urge to lash out and deck the batarian then and there begin its struggle for control of his senses. His reason was only just keeping it chained. He narrowed his eyes at the batarian, voice full of the same venom he wished he could call upon to destroy this man on the spot, "Shepard is a damn hero. And you want to know something else? I served with him. I was on his squad. I can tell you right now that did not derive joy from the deaths at Aratoht, nor does he have any semblance of control over the Faith. He detests them as much as we do. So how about you show a little more respect to the man who saved your worthless ass from being stomped to the curb by the Reapers, and stop throwing around baseless accusations."

The batarian just snorted, his laugh sounding more like a bark than a sound of amusement, "Human soldier defending the human murderer. Typical. Believe me, the batarian people will ensure Shepard sees the full measure of our retribution, and we'll start by ripping out the parasites that are his followers, root and stem. We won't suffer his judgement any further. The Pillars will judge him next."

"Believe what you want," James snapped, shaking his head, "I just want the Shepardists defeated so I can go home. Shepard isn't a murderer, and he sure as hell doesn't support whatever it is the Good Samaritan is playing at here. So how about you take your opinion and shove it."

The batarian wasn't amused, and he wasn't budging, "I think you have an attitude problem." He was so close that his breath was fogging up his visor now.

"I think you need a breath mint."

Now he really wanted to punch the marine, and James could see it. He braced himself for the soldier to make his move, but otherwise didn't so much as flinch. He wouldn't allow himself to be framed as the aggressor, although he doubted any fellow batarian would really care about that small detail. The batarian got closer, breath hitching in his throat, body framed and poised to strike as he-

"Sergeant Gokcarah, I sincerely hope what I'm seeing is an attempt at a hand shake."

The belligerent batarian, who James now knew by name as Gokcarah, seemed startled by the new voice on the scene, and for good reason. As James turned, he could see an approaching batarian not wearing armor, but instead outfitted with a red and brown military uniform adorned with what looked to be numerous commendations, and his insignia on his shoulders. His hands were clasped behind his back, his composure was dominant yet prideful, and the reaction he sparked in the sergeant was all too telling. With a surprised, but respectful tone, Gokcarah saluted his superior officer: the gesture was nothing like its human analogue, with the batarian lowering his head to look at the ground while crossing his arms across his chest in an X-shape, "General Dhorrepos, sir!"

General Dhorrepos barely even acknowledged Gokcarah's gesticulation, his eyes and focus completely on James as he approached, his four eyes analyzing the human marine's every movement and mannerism. Walking past Gokcarah without so much as a word, the batarian remaining unmoving, he stopped infront of James, looked him up and down, and scoffed, "So you're the marine your human admiral has chosen as his personal escort. You certainly look strong enough...for a human. Your conduct is lacking, however."

This batarian was a full head taller than James, and he could feel every bit of the man's height. The air of superiority about him was fairly imposing, the general's attitude less the product of typical, jingoistic and racist arrogance, but the result of decades of experience, military discipline and veterancy. This man's face told many stories: he had fought and survived many battles, clawed his way to the top, and had been ruthless in doing so. He was a member of the batarian military elite, a man whose stature and prestige had earned him the right to sit at the same table and break bread with men such as the Supreme Regent himself. James wasn't afraid of anybody, but him...he wouldn't want to be the general facing him in battle. This man reeked of unfair play. The kind of man who would sacrifice thousands of his own men simply to spite the enemy, or deny them a critical target.

James didn't reply, simply staring back. He wasn't talking to some soldier anymore: he was talking to a high-ranking member of the Hegemony's brass. One wrong word could reflect badly on the Alliance, and he really did not want to earn the ire of his battalion commander and the rest of Command. Instead, he simply breathed in, offering what he couldn't in words, but through countenance alone.

"Captain James Vega," Dhorrepos continued, his character assessment continuing willfully, "I hear you served with Commander Shepard. Ka'hairal Balak confided in me just how much he wanted that man dead, and how it physically hurt him to have to work with that war criminal during the war. Balak was an honorable man, and a true patriot. Few men of his caliber exist anymore, and all of Khar'Shan grieved for his loss. Knowing he never got to finish his mission of bringing Shepard to justice saddens me...but one day, Shepard will get what he deserves. You humans have a saying that I find very fitting...revenge is a dish best served cold. I agree. Which is why the Hegemony will take up Balak's mission, and we won't rest until your former commander answers for his crimes and is executed on the extranet for all the galaxy to see. How ironic that the Shepardists choose to attack this planet...my people...its almost like the great Pillars of Strength have brought my enemy's peons to my doorstep."

Still, he didn't speak. He could feel vexation at his inability to refute the slander this general was committing against Shepard's name, but he would not risk insulting the batarian functionary, so he kept his mouth shut. James had learnt early on in his time fighting with Shepard when and where it was appropriate to express his opinion, and when it was necessary to follow orders without questions. He remembered how he had berated Shepard about leaving Earth on the first day of the Reaper War, and how he had gone too far and tipped Shepard over the edge, the commander chewing him out infront of the crew. He had felt like an idiot after that...a stupid hothead who was too gungho and self-interested to understand how Shepard ran his ship or did things. He liked to think he had improved since then. That Shepard had taught him the importance of picking one's battles.

"Nothing to say?" Dhoreppos asked, cocking his head disappointingly. Eventually, he just sighed, shaking his head, "I suppose there is nothing to really be said in his defense, is there? You probably know he's a criminal, and you're only defending him because it gets you dead batarians. Well, mark my words...this task force won't last. And when this is over, and we defeat the SRA rebels, the Hegemony will finish the job we started."

"Focus on the present, general. I believe your government, as well as mine, has insisted we work together. So how about you start by ceasing to try and provoke the captain. I think you'll find it impossible."

James immediately recognized that voice: anybody who had served on the  _Normandy_ would. Looking away from Dhoreppos, who was already stepping back and looking back at the source as well, James watched as Fleet Admiral Steven Hackett walked towards them. Just like Dhoreppos, he walked with a measure of professionalism and stoicism, hands hands at his sides but chiseled and expressionless face all-business and seemingly made from the toughest steel. His cold blue eyes seemed to see right through you, while the goatee that was dominated by the greys of age added to his wise and knowledgeable look. As always, he was immaculately clad in his blue and black Alliance uniform, officer's bars on his shoulderpads and left breast, with an admiral's cap fitted tightly over his head. Each step he took was urgent and purposeful, viewing every moment as vitally important and refusing to waste even a single second of his time, taking his work extremely seriously. It was no wonder this man was seen as the Alliance Navy's prodigy: the man had made admiral in just nine years of service, which didn't include his previous service in the groundside North American States Navy on Earth, where he served on a series of postings operating in the Pacific and Bering Strait. The man was military through-and-through...and something of a role model to Shepard. Someone he had deeply respected, and who deeply respected him back.

Now James knew  _exactly_ who had chosen James as his bodyguard. He had probably requested James' presence personally because of his affiliation with Shepard.

Dhoreppos seemed to sense the aura of authority that surrounded Hackett too, because the browbeating that he had attempted with James before was gone, replaced with a careful and cautious level of deference, "Admiral Hackett. I was just assessing the worthiness of your chosen escort here. I have to say, I'm baffled."

"Then its a good thing I'm not asking for your opinion, general," Hackett stated simply, sparing no time for bullshit. Unlike James, Hackett had the liberty of addressing his military equals bluntly and without censor, "I suggest you keep your men in line, so that I can better do the same with mine. I suggest you see to your sergeant while I see to Captain Vega here. We'll meet at your field HQ later to discuss where to go from here."

In just a manner of a few sentences, Hackett had verbally dismissed a high-ranking batarian general...and received no reprisal for it. Dhoreppos, to his credit, didn't deflate like a popped balloon. Clearly his pride wasn't all he had, and he simply nodded at Hackett in acknowledgement before grunting at Gokcarah to follow him. One the two men had wandered out of sight, Hackett motioned with his head for James to follow him, and he did. He stopped once they reached the edge of the crater, the marine standing beside him, both of them with their hands clasped behind their backs. Finally, after a moment, the admiral spoke.

"You composed yourself well," Hackett noted with a certain note of approbation, "You held your ground despite what Dhoreppos threw at you. He didn't think you could handle it, but you did. Well done. I think even he was impressed. Believe me, that means a lot. He's a stubborn, high-expectations type of war horse."

That confused James, who turned to Hackett with a frown, "Sorry to have to ask sir, but...you knew what the general was going to say to me?"

Hackett nodded, having expected the question, "I'm the one who suggested it. Dhoreppos is a friend of mine. I've known him since the Blitz: he was captured when Torfan fell and I personally oversaw his transfer back to Khar'Shan after the surrender when I learned that he offered himself up to the SIA in exchange for his troops being treated fairly. He doesn't love the Hegemony anymore than we do, captain. He fights because he loves his people, not the regime. We've kept our friendship under lock and key because Dhoreppos knew the  _Feksogar_ would crackdown on it if they found out. A human on Khar'Shan is dangerous, even for a man of my position, and he just wanted to make sure I have good men at my side to protect me. He taunted you to test your resolve. You passed. You should take pride in that."

Well, James certainly hadn't expected  _that_ from the admiral. To learn he had a secret friend in the batarian leadership was surprising, to say the least, "Well, I have to say sir, he's not the first person today I've heard slander Shepard's name in that way. He may not have meant it, but that sergeant did. They blame Shepard for the cultists helping to blow up Kepcedah."

"And he won't be the last," Hackett revealed, reaching up to clasp the giant human's shoulder tightly, "We're not among friends here, captain. That's why I chose you to escort me: my name carries weight in the Alliance, and many Hegemony chest thumpers will want to take advantage of my presence here. Dhoreppos being in charge of this operation has ensured our safety here for a while, but it won't last. Dhoreppos knows a civil war is only a matter of time now. You need to remain vigilant...and stay alert."

"I will be, sir," James promised, turning around to snap a salute, "Nobody will get past me."

"You served with the Commander. Not just anybody can do that," the admiral stated simply before sighing, hand reaching up to scratch his goatee, "That's why you're here. Unfortunately however, I think Shepard's decisions are exactly why we're here now, and why the galaxy is now one hundred and fifty thousand batarians shorter."

That shocked James, "Are you suggesting...?"

"I suggest nothing, I simply look at the facts, captain," he emphasized sternly, "I look at this, and I see what could have been. I don't fault Shepard for wanting a peaceful new life on the galactic rim...away from all the chaos and war. But as much as he may wish to ignore it, I know the man well enough to know that he can't turn his back on this. The Council will want answers. And even a man who has made it his life's mission to flee from conflict can't willingly ignore this any longer. We've got a civil war brewing here, and if that's not bad enough, the people calling themselves his disciples may have bankrolled it. If not to clear his name, then Shepard will act because he no longer has a choice."

As James looked out across the site, eyes lost in the abyssal maw of the crater before them, and trying to imagine the city and the people that once were...

...he realized Hackett may be right.

_Loco...what are you doing?_

* * *

_Shepard Residence, Rannoch - January 20, 2188 - Three and a half hours later_.

_What was he doing?_

This question had been lingering on his mind for the two days that had passed since his heated argument with Garrus that had ended with slammed desks and fuming tensions. Neither of them had been caught in such a tempestuous dissension since Shepard had verbally scolded him for his brash, reckless actions during the  _Fedele_ raid four years ago. Even then, that argument had been tame compared to this, with Shepard starting out furious, but quickly becoming more gentle with his chastizement. This exchange had been...chaotic at best. A vicious beating of words that both sides likely regretted, but had failed to take back since then. Garrus hadn't contacted him since, and Shepard's thoughts were too indecisive and muddied to even attempt reconciliation with his friend. So silence reigned between the two.

Shepard could tell Tali was fed up with it all: they were her friends as well, and to see them embroiling themselves in such a pointless conflict hurt her more than she was prepared to admit to either of them. She hadn't been afraid to make her disappointment known to him however, and he could tell which side she stood on. She would support whatever choice he made, but it was obvious at this point which one she truly agreed with. And that was the query that loitered in his mind. Was Garrus ultimately right?

It was really coming down outside. Breathing heavily from his isometrics earlier, a carefully placed towel hanging around his neck and drenched in sweat, he gently craned his head from where he sat on the couch in his living room to see the downpour that was bombarding the Rannochian landscape outside. Sheets of rain came down in an opaque mist that obscured long distance viewing of the horizon, the dirt and dust of the ground coalescing into a syrupy, black tar that quickly began to run down to the cliff in a flood. The torrential rain was unlike anything he had seen on Rannoch thus far: but, according to Tali, it was perfectly normal for this time of year. In ancient times, before the agricultural age began on Rannoch, quarian tribes would often build their homes on high ground to avoid what they called  _ise'ples_ , or the 'great flooding'. Advances in technology had followed that trend since then.

The rain boomed as it impacted the steel roof of the house, the sound a thunderous cacophony that made it nearly impossible to hear his own breathing. It had been going like this since the morning, but due to his military training, he had been able to sleep through most of it. Now, a few hours into the afternoon, the cloudburst was finally beginning to ease off, although it would be several minutes before it lifted away altogether. Despite the noise and the miserable display that the weather impressed upon him, he found that an odd sense of coziness and security filled him at the sight. There were one too many times where, during his N7 training, he had been dumped into mud caked rainstorms such as these, soaked to the bone and freezing as he was slammed by severe winds and icy cold rain. To be dry, warm and safe inside his own home, watching the rain from inside his own four walls, was a small comfort he took pleasure in. He had earned his right to be here, and that knowledge felt good.

Raising his hand, he sunk his teeth deeply into the apple that he had procured from their limited levo supplies, enjoying the rich flavor of the juicy fruit as it practically melted in his mouth. He sighed, raising his other arm to activate his omni-tool at the same time, turning on the vidscreen in front of him. He wasn't even really interested in watching anything at the moment, but it would do well for his mind to have something in the background to distract him. The rain outside immediately made it difficult to hear anything however, and he practically had to crank the volume up to maximum to even hear anything. With that done, he lay back, zoning out as whatever program played on the screen. It looked like somekind of kitchen management show, and involved a salarian and a...pyjak? A strange combination, to be sure.

Despite the attempt to disrupt his debilitating self-critique of himself for just a few minutes, the inane and strange adventures of a salarian chef named Gardan Ranze and his pet pyjak and their attempts to fix up debt-riddled and mismanaged restaurants just weren't enough to keep his demons at bay, especially when they were so persistent.

_Am I doing the right thing by sitting this out? I used to think I was, but now I'm not so sure...not even Tali is entirely convinced anymore. I thought when I left that hospital on Earth that I was leaving the past behind and marching onto the future...Tali and I had been so optimistic. Were we naive? Am I slipping? Is it perhaps my own complacency that's led me into this mess?_

The answer had seemed so clear before: but shifting tides and now the assassination of a well-regarded batarian politician were beginning to change that perspective. The future now seemed nebulous and murky, the path forward unclear and subject to tangent. He was rolling a dice and constantly coming up with low numbers. Shepard had allowed himself to believe he had it all figured out, but recent events were clearly trying to warn him, as transparently as possible, that he couldn't have been further from the truth.

He took another bite of his apple, chewing on it quietly as he listened for the sound of Tali tinkering around in her workshop on the other side of the house. What time she didn't spend with him were spent in what he had playfully dubbed her 'toy room', the quarian completely enamoured with the amount of equipment, machinery and other assorted technology she got to play around with. She had spent most of the time making a few minor tweaks to Chatika in an attempt to switch her role from purely combat-based to possessing limited domestic functions. What other projects she had engaged with at that time was a secret only she knew the answer to. It was her little world...he had his firing range and gym in the basement, she had her workshop.

But, at the moment, she used it as an escape. She wasn't angry with him...she was simply disappointed, and fed up. Looks had been exchanged over breakfast, lunch and dinner...the same looks. She saw his and understood. The look of desperation. The look of someone who, finally, didn't have the answer or any sort of game plan. He saw hers and lamented. He saw frustration. She was annoyed at their entire situation...but also annoyed at him for, what she perceived, as him running away from the only solution. She understood why he was doing it, and a part of her even yearned to continue believing it could work, but ultimately...not even she could continue to support his behaviour much longer.

She knew he needed time to think...and, sadly, that often meant they spent more time away from each other than together. After going through their daily routine of trying to keep Shepard's strength up, she had retreated to her workshop, secretly giving him so solitary time to contemplate and think. Back during the war, she'd often allow him to destress after a mission or stressful negotiation by lying his head in her lap and letting him rant until he could no longer muster the strength to do so. Then she'd talk to him, figure out the problem in the adorable and lovable way she always did, and inadverently solve his woes with a few unintentionally pithy statements and a laugh.

But this wasn't that sort of problem, and Tali knew this was something he needed to figure out on his own. She couldn't push, prod or encourage him to see in one direction: he needed to reach that conclusion on his own. He was sure Tali had noticed this, and that's why she had let him be, but whether that was the case or not...here he was, watching a salarian chef and a pyjak solve financial problems in the typical 'reality TV' fashion that exasperated him, while he tried to dig deep and find an answer to the question he needed resolved before he could even think of moving forward.

The question didn't bare repeating. He had exhausted all his answers and excuses...and, ultimately, that's what they were. Excuses. Attempts to vindicate his dogged refusal to play into the Samaritan's game. To get involved in what he viewed as a purely political matter. Ever since this cultist crisis had taken the galaxy by storm, he had delivered argument after argument for why he shouldn't continue to stick his neck out for the Citadel Council. At the beginning, he may have been in the right. But as people began to die and lives were ruined, his justifications had morphed into excuses. He was Commander Shepard, and he was sitting by and watching as the Samaritan and his cult of hero worship twisted and corrupted the galaxy one planet at a time. The slaughter outside Afterlife. The attempted assassination of Linron, and the successful attempt on Balak. Each one had a new excuse for why he shouldn't do what was right.

He was both wrong and right. Yes, he had earned the right to rest. No one in the galaxy had argued when he quietly retreated into retirement: who would dare have the audacity to ask someone who had seen the shit he'd seen to continue their service? But heroes became heroes in the first place because they were unable to sit by and watch injustice take place. Promises of retirement one day turn into oaths of allegiance the moment an innocent is hurt or an unforgivable crime by a madman is committed. Shepard had always seen himself as the man who wouldn't lie down and willingly allow civilians die without even attempting to save them. It was the same attitude that had nearly driven him off the deep end in terms of sanity during the Reaper War. Every civilian that died was a personal failing that he wore like a mark of shame.

So who the fuck was he to suddenly switch off his moral compass and sip a beer as the galaxy burned because it was no longer convenient? Was he not Commander fucking Shepard? Savior of the Galaxy?

Garrus wasn't right. He wasn't a coward. But Garrus wasn't wrong either. The solemn duty to protect the innocent and vanquish the guilty wasn't one that came with an expiry date. It didn't conclude the moment one shed their uniform, said their goodbyes and retired. It was an eternal duty that every marine, every soldier, every public servant took up and held onto for life. The saying 'once a marine, always a marine' wasn't simply some to-live-by statement the US marines made up to make themselves sound more righteous. It was an axiom. The essence of a marine never truly dies or retires: it lives on forever.

It was a self-evident truth that Shepard had forgotten. That he had neglected. And that, more than anything, was a personal failing.

Even when one considered his inhibited physical capabilities, and the effect that has had on his mental state, he still wasn't in the clear. He may not be fit for combat operations anymore, but the Council wasn't asking him to take charge of any raids or personally take command of the war against the Samaritan (or the 'Council-Shepardist conflict', as headlines are now calling it). All they had ordered him to do was to come to the Citadel for a simple press release that would absolve him of any involvement in the Samaritan's organization, exonerate him from any wrongdoing on their part, and effectively give the Council his blessing in commencing a full-scale galactic manhunt for the Faith. After all, their cause looked more just in the eyes of the public if the man who saved them all from extinction gave it his approval.

It was that simple. But Shepard, wanting nothing to do with it at all, had conjured up more excuses. Was he wrong in suggesting the Council would use this to reel him in? Squeeze a few more missions out of him? It was a very real possibility. But he could always say no, just as he had before. Any doctor in the galaxy could prove to the Council that he simply wasn't fit for continuing the way he used to. He'd give his speech, and go back home. His involvement would be less than a few hours long, at best. All up, the whole trip, there and back, would take little more than a week.

So why the fuck was he so damn scared to do it?

His thoughts kept coming back to Tali: what she wanted. He kept trying to convince himself that all of this was in service to her. Yes, she had confided in him just how badly she wanted a life with him that didn't involve the fear of dying or being shot all the time. He had gone out of his way to make that dream a reality because he wanted it too. She deserved everything he could give her and more...and he had done everything he did in service of that goal. She was to be his wife...her opinion mattered then, and now it mattered magnitudes more now. He had thought she was completely onboard with his decision, but recent events had made it abundantly clear that wasn't the case anymore. Even she was beginning to see through the cracks to the inevitable choice that lay ahead. It stared him in the face...he simply wasn't willing to acknowledge it. He was too damn afraid that the illusion would be shattered.

The illusion that he could finally set aside his duty and rest. His eternal duty to everlasting vigilance. No, there was always one more mission. One more task. His habits always caught up with him, no matter how much he tried to run from it. Not even on Rannoch, on the very fringes of civilization, could he hope to escape it. It was this same fact that was constantly rearing its ugly head, and each time, he thought he could ignore it. So much for that idea.

Garrus had been trying to tell him early on. The common theme here was that those who had supported his policy of non-interference in the initial stages of the crisis were no longer as accepting of it. Garrus had practically begged him to take heed of his advice and come to the Citadel, and now Tali. All the indicators pointed in one direction. He didn't like it. He hated the idea of even becoming marginally involved. But, as was now crystal clear, non-interference as a policy simply wasn't working. People were dying left and right, the Samaritan's power was growing everyday, his rhetoric and religious dogma was spreading without end, and now they had literally reached his doorstep. Conrad Verner's arrival had been a wake-up call. The first true indicator to him that he had colossally fucked up. That his blissful ignorance and turning of the other cheek had achieved nothing but to create the very circumstances that he, ironically, feared his interference would create. Set aside the fact that Conrad, a man that Shepard personally knew and thought to be one of the meekest, harmless people in the galaxy had been radicalized and turned into one of the Samaritan's lackeys, but the Shepardists had grown so bold as to  _come to his fucking house_.

They knew where he and Tali lived. Somehow they knew. The Samaritan knew enough about Shepard to be a threat, but he knew nothing about his enemy in turn. These two facts were enough to put him on edge. To make him rethink what he was doing. But it was Garrus' call, and Tali's subsequent discussion with him, that really left him pondering his doubts. His walk along the beach had done nothing to answer any of his personal ponderances on how to proceed, and the two days that followed had yielded little results either. He was, as of yet, a tempest of confusion. He had never felt this way before.

He always knew what to do. Every situation had a strategy he could exploit, and orders he could dole out. No objective was impossible, and nothing was unsalvageable. He was a master of his own destiny. He held all the cards, and the power to act. Giving all of that up had hurt him, but he knew there was no place for it where he was headed. But now he felt as vulnerable and helpless as ever. The way forward was a one-way street, and he could either walk down it or stay put. His options were limited. He had no control over what happened next.

So that was probably why he was so scared to do it. Before retirement, the uncertainty of the future didn't worry him because he had the tools to at least fight back. Now, he was a broken shell of a man with no resources to call upon as his own, no rank or title, and little political power. The only help he had to call upon was his team, who were scattered and off doing their own thing...and his quarian fiance. She was his anchor, his comfort, his security. He needed her to show him the right way. And she had rarely led him astray.

The rain outside finally mellowed out, turning into a light drizzle. He turned down the volume on the vidscreen to compensate before it became overbearing, and returned to his ruminations. The whir of power tools and electronics being used in the workshop was a distant sound he hardly took notice of. He took another bite of his apple, only now noticing that he had subconsciously been biting into it during his mental self-interrogation when he pulled it up for another bite, finding scarcely any part of the fruit left to eat. Taking one final chunk from the side, he placed its devoured remnant on the table infront of him, finding that the show he had turned on as a distraction had cut to an ad break, and was now advertising the latest in some type of asari perfume.

_I have to make a decision soon. And its becoming clearer and clearer to me that I can't continue down the path I've been following. At some point, something's got to give. Whether it be me, or the people in my life trying to convince me. But somebody has got to put a stop to the Samaritan. Will it really hurt me that much to go to the Citadel and throw his cult under the bus? To finally let the galaxy know, on the official record, that I disavow their actions and publicly condemn their actions? In may not amount to much, but at least I'll deny the cultists their main weapon: my name._

Wasn't it at least worth a shot? Even if it was just a drop in the bucket, the premium he'd get out of it would be for the Council to leave him alone. The Shepardists, having been called out by their idol and their 'Crusader', would become disillusioned with him and think twice about coming near him again. Their ability to use his name to justify acts of terrorism would be stripped from them, leaving the Samaritan without leverage or his main propaganda tool from which he uses to convert emotionally and psychologically vulnerable people by the masses. After a few short hours of Shepard dismantling the corrupted, sophistic image the Shepardists had created of him, he could potentially do the same amount of damage to them that he would commit if he had gone to war with them directly. Perhaps that would be the key to ending this nightmare, and returning back to his perfectly ordinary, utterly normal new life.

Or it may not. Maybe it'll open a whole new can of worms that he won't be able to close again. A pandora's box of new nightmares, these ones fresh and undaunted by his attempts to quickly seal the haemorrhaging, gaping wound. Perhaps his very actions would be the ones to finally unleash the blood hounds from Hell, the Samaritan taking his words and using them to rally an entirely new army and creed of supporters. Perhaps they'd become even more radicalized. Pious followers turn into extremists. Willing, well-meaning believers turn into next week's suicide bombers. Any word he says, taken even slightly out of context, could be the dawn of a new era of hatred, apartheid or even genocide. He could be the one that turns this crisis into a full blown galactic Shepardist uprising.

Those same psychosomatic worries plagued his mind, refusing him the slightest bit of respite or clarity. It was little wonder why he couldn't make his mind up: for every reason he conjured up for why he should, there was an equally persuasive reason for why he shouldn't. He was at war with himself. His own worst enemy.

It was a maddening affair.

_Bloody hell. This is going to take more time to think about than I thought. I just wish I could give a straight answer. Why am I making this so difficult for myself?_

Having finally begun to cool down from his exercises half an hour before, he pulled the towel from his neck and placed it on the sofa, standing up to get another apple and throw his old one in the bin. Before he could do that however, something on the vidscreen caught his eye, and he turned to find a GMO (Galactic Media Outlet) 'breaking news' headline covering the screen. The voice on the screen announced that they were interrupting the current program to deliver a breaking news story, and Shepard felt himself intrigued enough to sit back down, placing the used apple core back on the table as he did. The swirl of blue ribbons and purple flashes on the screen continued, the words 'BREAKING NEWS' remaining on screen, as if taunting him with their knowledge of what was to come.

_Must be pretty damn important if they're interrupting a galaxy-wide broadcast._

His attention completely enraptured in the screen, he sat and waited for the report to begin. A few minutes passed, the voice regularly reminding the viewer of the breaking news situation, and urging them to standby. Finally, after what felt like an hour, the screen cut away to a news station, where an immaculately clean asari news reporter with purple lipstick and what looked to be tribal tattooes reminiscent of what a huntress adorned sat, a datapad in one hand and her eyes fixed on the camera infront of her.

"We interrupt this program to bring you some breaking news here at GMO," the asari began, glancing down at her datapad with what looked to be a moment of hesitation. She bit her lower lip nervously, before clearing all emotion from her face, "We have received word from the Hegemony on Khar'Shan that at exactly 4:00pm Galactic Standard Time yesterday, an antimatter bomb was...detonated within the city limits of Kepcedah. Council and Hegemony officials have refused to comment thus far, except that they believe the bombing was a deliberate incident, and likely the work of the same people behind the assassination of Supreme Commander Ka'hairal Balak just three days prior. We warn viewers that the following footage can be distressing in nature."

Shepard watched with unfolding horror as said video footage was propped up on the screen in place of the asari news anchor. The news reporter could be heard talking over it, but he had zoned out the sound of her voice as he watched the content itself. The first video appeared to have been taken by a satellite in orbit over Khar'Shan, but upon closer inspection, a line of text in the top right corner identified it as the side observation camera of a batarian battlecruiser, the BRS  _Aurora_. He could only watch with one hand covering his mouth, eyes wide, as a bright purple flash could be seen on Khar'Shan's surface, the vessel's recording interface immediately dictating the heat signature and calculating its diameter to be nine kilometers in width, and 8.3 kilometers in length. The explosion itself was magnitudes more in height. A second angle of the explosion, this one from an orbitting satellite, zoomed in to the site, giving as clearer view of the city in question. The same purple flash occurred again, temporarily overloading the satellite's visual telemetry until it cleared up, revealing the spot where entire city blocks, structures full of people, streets of urban civilization and bustling city life had once existed...only to be replaced by a gaping hole.

_Oh my god..._

"...images are truly horrifying to behold," the reporter's words zoned back into his ears, his auditory functions seemingly switching back on as they seemed ready to hear the rest, "At current, the Hegemony estimates casualties to be numbering in the millions. However, Council commanders on the ground have called out the Hegemony for their gross inflation of those numbers, stating that the number of people killed is more accurately represented at one hundred and fifty thousand, with several thousands more wounded or exposed to lethal doses of radiation. Regardless of who is telling the truth, the numbers here are unbelievable. Such mass casualties haven't been observed since the end of the Reaper War."

More footage rolled on screen. Crumbling skyscrapers, their sides blackened by the sheer heat produced by the blast: some even had their paint liquified, the liquid not so much peeling off as it was sliding off the side. Exposed pipe and sewrage lines were snapped off at the point of detonation, draining dirty water and excrement into the crater below. The crater itself was large enough to fit a fleet of Reapers, with the patrolling Alliance gunships looking like insects when compared to the monolithic formation. The true size of it simply wasn't quantifiable in the human mind. It was too much for one person to process all at once. So much destruction and death, all caused in one instant by the most devastating weapon created by organic hands since the invention of the nuclear bomb.

What would J. Robert Oppenheimer say now, knowing that his brain child had now been eclipsed by a weapon so devastating that most governments, even the implacable Turian Hierarchy, feared to possess it?

Undeterred by the turmoil of his internal terror, the asari news anchor returned to the screen, footage continuing to play behind her, "Forces from the newly established Hegemony-Council Task Force are on site at what is now known as the ground zero for the 'Kepcedah Bombing'. It is the deadliest act of terrorism on Khar'Shan soil in batarian history, and both Hegemony and Council forces have quarantined the area, pending further decontamination procedures. The exact circumstances of the attack remain unclear, although the Hegemony government holds onto the belief that Slave Revolutionary Army forces were ultimately responsible for the attack. SRA officials have not yet claimed responsibility, but if found to be accountable, this could highlight further problems with the Shepardist cult, which the Council has already declared to be a terrorist organization due to its financial ties to the SRA. Hegemony authorities have declared that every action to bring those responsible to justice is being put into action, and that a declaration of war on the SRA can be expected within-"

His stunned silence continued for the rest of the news report, and he remained as such long after it finished. He found himself unable to move, even as normal programming continued following the breaking news story. What he had seen, what he had heard, shook him to the very core. It was a new development in a saga he hadn't wanted to see continue, especially not this...gruesomely. Every fear that he had regarding his non-intervention...had now come true. The dread he had felt...the kind of feeling that was almost like a premonition...the same one that had told him this was only going to get worse had now been confirmed to be right. It had gotten worse.  _Much_ worse. Leaps and bounds.

 _I...can't believe...I can't believe they'd escalate to something like_ _**this** _ _. Another attempted assassination maybe...but detonating WMDs in major population centers?_

He tried to convince himself that it was the SRA who committed the atrocity, but the connection between them and the cultists simply couldn't be ignored. The Samaritan supported the slave army, and now the slave army had the blood of a hundred and fifty thousand people on their hands.

Shepard's name was now forever tied to mass murder.

At least he could justify Aratoht. He tried to save them, but his actions aimed to buy the galaxy another six months from the Reaper threat. Here...there was no justification. This was a massacre based on a senseless pretense. No reason was given. Perhaps the SRA wanted to send a message...perhaps it was a twisted act of defiance against the Hegemony. Whatever the case, nothing could excuse the slaughter they had perpetrated.

But, most importantly, this was a final nail in the coffin for any argument Shepard could conjure up not to get involved. No, they were past that line now. Things were officially out of hand. He could no longer just sit by and watch this take place around. How long until the Shepardists started detonating their own bombs? Perhaps next time would be a Thessian city...or even one right here on Rannoch. They had to be stopped. The Samaritan and his army were out of control.

This was his fault. He had an opportunity to stop this earlier on, but he had turned it down. He may not have lit the fuse, but he was just as guilty for allowing it. And as worried as he may have been that the situation would drag him back to the fold, that was nothing compared to his fear of what might come next.

Finally snapping out of his paralytic state, he reached to his arm and used his omni-tool to switch off the vidscreen, cutting off the source of noise that was distracting him. He moved to stand up, finding himself swelling with a sense of purpose that he hadn't felt since...since he resolved to retake Earth from the Reapers. Since he chose Tali and Garrus to be with him for the final battle. Since he charged the Beam, and since he activated the Crucible.

But another feeling halted him, causing him to turn around, unable to ignore the sensation of being watched. Lo and behold, standing in the doorway to the living room, was Tali, body leaning against the door frame, arms crossed and looking at him with concern. She must have heard the news report from her workshop, which meant she had likely heard everything. However, her solicitous posture gave way when she saw the horrified look in his eyes dissolve, replaced only by the solidarity he now felt. Replacing it was hope...hope that he had finally seen the error of his ways, corrected his course, and was now ready to do the right thing.

She read him like a book...like she was a few pages ahead of where she was supposed to be. She knew him too well.

He was wrong. Silence was not the answer. Action was. And the Samaritan needed to be stopped.

So, finally, his decision was made.

"Gather what you need. We're going to the Citadel."

* * *

 _Shepardist Sanctuary, Sanctum - January 20, 2188 - A few minutes later_.

_The shadows were whispering._

_He stood amongst a sea of monochrome, unable to accumulate an understanding of his surroundings, why he was here or what he was doing. His memory, the defective circuit that it was, struggled to force a reaction from most of his five senses, sight being his only freed up mechanism. His vestibular was all screwed up, and he felt himself passing through phases of nausea and vertigo that left him reeling and dizzy. He wanted to speak, but he could hardly move his mouth: even his eyelids refused his commands, remaining open even though he ordered them to close. Upon closer inspection, he found himself naked: his body stripped of all clothing, his privates on display for anyone to see. His mind was able to subconsciously notice this, but was not helpful in providing an explanation for why. He strained to remember, but as usual, relying on his memory as a crutch simply wasn't possible._

_His dubiety continued, while the shadows whispered on._

_He couldn't hear what they were saying. Their voices were just loud enough to hear, but low enough to be unintelligible. He spun, searching for the voices, the people behind them...but he saw nothing. For...miles? Kilometers? AUs? His depth perception was another casualty of this nonsensical mare's nest. For all he knew, he could be trapped in a box, or in the middle of a void. Non-descript grey was all the color he could extract from his transcendental environment, the result being a pestilential prison that he could find no meaning in. Nothing about where he was belonged to any rule of rational thought, and despite his delirious, ill-gotten state...he was able to discern that he was not belonging to any reality he knew of or could perceive accurately._

_Yet...it felt real. Parts of this, the nakedness, the whispers...something about them seemed memorable. Tangible. As broken as his memory might be, there were aspects of this that triggered flashes in his mind. But what those flashes were and what meaning were tied to them was left teasingly out of reach, torturing him with the promise of comprehension and clarity, but ultimately dangling it beyond his grasp like yarn withheld from a cat. The answers were there, but denied to him. He wanted to scream, to pound his chest and yell, hoping these acts of frustration would yield something of value, but all it did was aggravate him further._

_The whispers never stopped. They were unperturbed. He was a specimen, being observed from all angles...all of a sudden, the void around him felt like a glass prison. Like he was an animal in a zoo being pointed at and laughed at and talked about by all the visitors. His exposure felt more real upon that realization, a hand instictively reaching down to cover his genitals as he continued to growl in growing vexation._

_Where was he? What was this? Why was he here? Was this real or not? What were the whispers! WHAT ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT!?_

_The human mind was an object that demanded knowledge and curiosity to satiate its enormous power. It was an organic supercomputer, processing information in a way that the brain dictated. This is what granted them sentience and sapience in abundance...what had made humanity, and the other intelligent species of the galaxy, so unique on their worlds. In a world teaming with exotic lifeforms, megafauna and endless wildlands...only one species would come out ontop, to rise above the rest and conquer the planet. Humanity had been that species on Earth. Their brains granted them that power. It was their most useful tool._

_But, it was also a curse. Curiosity could kill. The quest to obtain knowledge could bring one to the brink of insanity, and when one is informed of the existence of a certain kind of knowledge, but is denied access to it, that only makes them want it more...the Streisand effect. History has proven that to be a dangerous mindset. Humans are not supposed to know everything, but they wish to do all the same. That quest can be beneficial, but most of the time, its counter-productive. And, at this very moment, it was proving to be his greatest burden._

_He must know what the whispers are saying. He wants to know. To be teased with the promise of what they speak and yet kept in the dark was a cruel prank the mind played upon their vessel. But the whisperers were not cooperative. They did not reveal themselves, or speak louder. They kept to the penumbra of the void's circumference, beyond his touch and beyond his comprehension. This knowledge made him feel weak, vulnerable...unstable. He felt like he was being watched, yet he saw noone. That kind of paranoia consumed him. Mentally tearing him to shreds like so many claws._

_His nakedness was made all the more discernable._

_His anguished screeching stopped. He realized now he could hear himself. He could smell the stench of cordite, wood smoke, freshly cut grass and airborne pollen that hung in the air. The sound of distant war cries, barking COs, thundering artillery in the distance, roaring fighter jets as they flew overhead...However, these were elements of another world. Of reality. They couldn't exist in a realm such as the one he was in...so the only explanation was that these smells and sounds were memories. Conjured remembrances triggered by some unforeseen event...or perhaps his brain attempting to contact him. But what were these sounds and smells? They suggested a battlefield...but if that was the case, what battle? What war?_

_And why was he naked?_

_He thought he had been thrown a cognitive bone. That his angry shouting had finally provoked a reaction, and the whisperers had given in. But then...one of them laughed. No...guffawed._

_Then another. And another. More and more joined the chorus until a whole bunch were joining in. Then a wave of humiliation rolled over him...he felt belittled, worthless...the sensation was so overwhelming that he felt the need to run. To turn and sprint as fast as he could...but he didn't. He stood still, and took it. That strangely felt right. Like it was...historically correct._

_Then, finally, the unintelligible mumbles stripped away their peace and finally uttered words he could understand. He could practically hear the deafness being lifted away..._

_"...pull...your dick...fucking idiot...not worth...rookie."_

_The voices were getting louder, disjointed sentences slowly forming stories of their own. If he squinted his eyes, he swore he could see faces emerging in the mirky mist before him, but they weren't granting him much more than that._

_"utterly...without a doubt, the worst...couldn't tell his ass from...not convinced."_

_Suddenly, he felt somebody's breath on his face, and he instinctively winced from it. It was almost like they were_ _**right there** _ _._

_"You going to...keep standing there...limp dick?"_

_Just as abruptly as before, four of his senses were assaulted at once: he spat and sputtered as the taste of what must have been dirt slid across his tongue, the bitter and rough texture immediately instilling disgust and revulsion in him. His ears popped, pain shot up the front of his face, and he felt the rough, grainy sensation of levelled grass and dirty mud caking his face. Humiliation set in once more, this time joined by...anger._

_The voice could be heard again, and this time his eyes widened as he heard it, "You're not fit to be a marine, rookie."_

_That voice! He recognized it. It was..._ _**he** _ _was a fellow marine...yes, he had been a marine! And the voice belonged to...belonged to..._

_The name remained just outside his interpretative capabilities...but he had definitely heard that voice more recently. But who was it? It sounded gruff, cynical, sure of itself...as a marine would. Damn it, why couldn't he remember?_

_The answers would remain beyond his grasp. As soon as he heard the voice utter its last, mocking addendum, the grey void evaporated, blinding him with a bright white light. All focus was tarnished and destroyed with that bright light, which seemed to devour him within its celestial totality as all thought of his nakedness, the voice, the memory he had accessed and the featureless expanse he had been dumped in were washed away, leaving him feeling as empty as he had before the eldritch experience._

_Empty. That's how he felt. An empty vessel full of grief, regret and deceit, and left with only one last mission: the search for redemption, and retribution._

As he came to, he felt his slip back into reality progressing at a rather lethargic, ponderous pace. It wasn't at all like a movie where one jolted awake after a horrifying nightmare, drenched in innumerable liters of sweat, breathing heavily and seeking respite from the confusing cesspool of a mental maelstrom that was their unwanted dream state. His return was relatively passive by comparison, warranting no sudden movement. Instead of moving quickly, he simply lay where he was, eyes peering up at the dark ceiling above him. The hand he used to support his head above his pillow tapped the side of the sofa mindlessly, while his other hand tried to rub the blurry myopia from his sight, trying to alleviate him of the tunnel vision impairing him at present due to his sudden awakening.

Like with all dreams, he wasn't able to extract anything worthwhile from the clusterfuck of a nightmare he'd just experienced. Attempting to think hard and remember the experience was a pointless waste of cognitive muscles, and it just seemed the more he tried to recall, the less he actually did. All he knew was that this anamnesithic episode had involved more questions than answers, and was simply pouring fuel of a fire he thought he had doused.

_My only priority is to exalt and bring the Crusader's creed into the light. To ensure his galactic hegemony over us all...my past is irrelevant. Who I was and why I'm here is not important. I promised I would stop chasing after that. So why is my mind so fixated with learning the truth of my former life? If it doesn't help me better complete my task, then whatever information I gather is useless._

_I need to stop this. Focus on the task at hand. My mission. That's all that matters now. I will live for, serve and die for the Crusader. If my search for answers hinders, in any way, my ability to see that through...then I will gladly sacrifice it for the greater good. For the galaxy. For the Faith. And for the Crusader._

Bringing up his omni-tool, he noticed the time was well into the night on Sanctum. From what he could see on his chronometer, he had only succeeded in acquiring, at best, forty winks. Nowhere near a good rest, but it was more than nothing he supposed: far better than he usually got. Poor sleep patterns were the norm with him ever since he woke up in that SAAF facility. His mind just would not shut down...thoughts and processes running on repeat for the better part of a night, refusing him even the most basic of siestas. If he was lucky, he'd get six hours sleep. There were some nights where he didn't sleep at all.

His body paid for it...but his mind seemed entirely unaffected. And that's something he could handle. He needed his wits more than he needed his body in peak condition. As long as his more strategic comprehensions were undeterred, he would soldier on. It's all he had.

Figuring he could either lay here and attempt to get back to sleep, or get up and get some work done, he decided on the latter and gently pushed himself up and off the couch, standing up and stretching until enough bones popped for him to feel satisfied. He walked over to the wall and fumbled around in the dark until he found the appropriate haptic switch, watching (or, at least, trying to watch) as the lights came on. He squinted to see past the blinding burn of their luminescence for a few cold seconds, but once he finally broke past that threshold, he made his way over to the sink in his room and blasted cold water over his face to finalize the wakening process. Taking a moment for further composure, he looked up from the discoloured basin and took note of the stubble that was beginning to grow along the sides of his jaw. His reflected eyes met his corporeal ones within the mirror, and he found himself, for a brief moment, being interrogated by his own reflection.

_Who am I?_

_The Good Samaritan._

_Yes, and a name that fits me well...but it was not my given name._

_It does not matter. All that does matter is that they know me as the Good Samaritan._

_An identity forged to cover up the real one. To sweep it aside. I'm not the Good Samaritan: I've merely adopted the disguise it offers me. A safe name that protects me from the secrets posed by my real identity. A pandora's box, indeed._

_Yes, well, that box will remain shut if I have anything to say about it. Some secrets best remain that way._

_Who decides that, however?_

He growled, slapping the side of his head meteorically as he churlishly banished his unwanted self-doubt to the deeper recesses of his mind. He splashed some more water on his face, breathing deeply as he shook and flinched from the icy liquid, before washing his hands and using a nearby hand dryer to dry his hands again. Now at least partially awake, he turned to the desk that rested at the front of the room and studiously stalked towards it.

The facilities on Sanctum were really coming along now, and the ever increasing flow of loyal followers streaming through their gates was making the formerly abandoned, claustrophobic and deafeningly silent ruin of a camp back to life. The place had been a wreck when they arrived: rotting and mummified Blue Suns corpses everywhere, limited or no power throughout the facility, little food, sections reclaimed by nature...and, to make it all worse, no orbital facilities to properly dock their ships, forcing them to use shuttles. All in all, their new beginning on Sanctum hadn't been met with a positive response, and many had been demoralized or dissatisfied with their organization's newest accomodations.

But six days had passed since then. What had been a complete desolation, a write off in every sense of the word, had been turned into a haven. To make up for a lack of orbital docks, the two landing pads the Blue Suns had built when they took over the facility over two years ago were put into use once more, and they had developed a more expedient method from which to transport supplies. Areas reclaimed by nature were themselves recaptured: trees were cut down, vines and plantation removed, with the most affected areas retrofitted by those in their group qualified to do so. New power generators were purchased through the black market on Omega at cheap prices, restoring power to most of the base and, most significantly, to the critical sections needed. Food was restocked, and the bodies placed in a mass grave ten kilometers away and buried. The dilapidated camp that had suffered years of neglect was practically uninhabitable had been made into the opposite, and it was all thanks to the perserverence of his people, and their loyalty to the cause.

His 'office', if one could have called it that, had seen better days when he first entered it. At first, it had seemed fine: an overturned desk, flaking paint on the walls...the rest of it was in good condition. But once he dug further into the fine print, the more glaring issues began to form: moss growing on the walls, barely one light working, and water running along the floor due to a nearby water table being breached. All of these issues had been mopped up and dealt with the next day, and now he could confidently call this place home. Or, at least, as close to home as he was going to get for now.

_This place was never meant to be permanent. This is nothing more than a staging base. Illium was compromised: staying there was no longer an option. At least from here, we can maintain secrecy. They won't find us here...and by the time they do, it'll be too late. Our movement will swarm the galaxy, and not even the Council will be able to stop us then._

He practically dumped himself in his seat, rubbing his eyes of the few fragments of aching exhaustion that still hung onto them, and activated his terminal, the holographic interface shooting up with a beep and quickly displaying the last screen of information he had been looking at before he fell asleep, along with a pending notification from a GMO news update. After the debacle involving Amarp's misguided attempt to assassinate Dalatrass Linron, he made sure to watch the news with the attention of a hawk. He had enough issues to worry about without adding incompetent and disorderly cell leaders to the mix. The uncoordinated actions of independent cell leaders had ended when he took over...the Samaritan had thought he put an end to that.

But, as it turned out, such things were now the least of his worries.

As he clicked and read the article, he found himself flabbergasted. What he was reading...it was like something out of an alternative history novel regarding armageddon. The details of it were grotesque and horrific, painting a picture of absolute, senseless brutality and collective suffering that made the Shepardist plight seem trifling by comparison.

_The SRA have certainly proven that they understand the meaning of psychological and terrorist warfare. And that they'll go to any lengths to secure their independence from the suffocating sovereignty of the Batarian Hegemony. Many of our own members are former SRA and Hegemony civilians turned refugee._

The alliance between the cultists and the SRA was one of brotherhood. Unlike some of the smaller coalitions the Samaritan was looking to found with potential shell companies, military advocacy groups and postreaperist lobbyists (Postreaperism or 'Post-Reaperism' being the newly developed political ideology sweeping through the galaxy that focuses on post-Reaper War policies of rebuilding, recuperation, reparation, reconstruction and recovery, and is considered to go hand-in-hand with ideals of Postreaperist revisionism, pluralism and post-war ethnic diversity), the SRA wasn't just an ally, but a friend with not too dissimilar, if not blatantly mutual, goals. Both fought for concepts of justice and restoring order: however, the SRA's scope was narrower than the FAICRU's (FAIth of the CRUsader's official acronym), focusing on one specific area rather than the entire galaxy. Their overall goals differed as well: whereas the SRA's primary objective was the dissolution of the Batarian Hegemony, the abdication of the Supreme Regent, the establishment of a republic and the emancipation of all slaves, the FAICRU were far more religious, and were committed to the exaltation of the Crusader, his placement as dictator of the galaxy (in the classical Roman sense of the word, not the pejorative modern-day revisionist view of it), and their purpose as his disciples and followers.

As much as he hated to admit it, the SRA's own principles would eventually clash with the FAICRU. The Crusader's destiny was to rule over the galaxy with an iron fist in order to save it, but to do that, the governments had to surrender their authority and certain freedoms in order to facilitate this transition. A galactic dictatorship of this caliber had never been seen before, and while the krogan had come close to conquering the Milky Way millenia ago, they had never succeeded. This kind of dictatorship, supported by a powerful military apparatus that the Crusader could command personally (the FAICRU providing this force), would not clash well with concepts of freedom and democracy...values held in high esteem by the humanity's Alliance government, the Asari Republics and, mostly importantly, the SRA and their republican advocates.

But, he had known this. The SRA were a means to an end...an ally at the moment, but an enemy of tomorrow. So long as they kept the Council's attentions focused elsewhere, he could expand Shepardist operations far more easily. And while one could classify the SRA's antimatter bombing of Kepcedah 'extreme measures', he couldn't argue with the results. The Council had been dividing its attentions before...but now most of their focus was on the SRA. No doubt they had also discovered the FAICRU's connection to the SRA as well, but knowing their bureaucracy and their history with less-than-stellar responses to escalating threats, he'd expect the Council to hold from making any major plays against him for at least another month while they contain the civil war brewing on Khar'Shan and throughout batarian space. That left his organization to make their next few moves in peace. Sure, one hundred and fifty thousand lives lost was a tragedy...and certainly not one had planned on. But many more would die before the end of this great revolution, and it was better to get used to it now before the real losses started to mount.

Thus far, as far as this report went, the Council were falling for his umbriferous machinations and were still totally oblivious. Even with the limited resources he had, and having taken several steps back to escape their grasp, he was still managing to secure more wins. There was only one variable left, one that was absolutely required before they could move on.

They needed the Crusader to take his rightful place. Which is exactly the task he had entrusted to one Conrad Verner: to go to Rannoch and inspire their hero to take flight and adopt his consecrated title with  _amour propre_. It was not a task he had assigned lightly, and if it wasn't for the fact that he was the most wanted man in the galaxy at the moment, he'd have trusted no one but himself to complete the task. But he had been left little choice, and all he had was the faith in his followers to do the right thing. Besides...if Conrad wasn't loyal to the Samaritan, he certainly was to the Crusader...and that's ultimately all that really mattered, when it came down to it.

The man in question was scheduled to arrive back today. He could have informed him via the extranet mail the success or failure of his task, but as the Samaritan had directed, all such exchanges were to be conducted face-to-face to avoid being compromised or intercepted. The Council most certainly had eyes-and-ears everywhere, so keeping everything internalized and compartmentalized was the best way to avoid the enemy being alerted to their actions.

Right on time, a knock on his door could be heard, followed by the distinct, gravelly tone of a krogan that had to be Krend. His krogan bodyguard had taken to his new duty to the nth degree, to the point where he began to wonder if the old soldier ever slept. Whatever the armourer's secret, he did not divulge it to him, and he was not one to complain: having a krogan dedicated to your protection nearly 24/7 was a luxury one with a paranoia as strong as his could only hope for, especially after an encounter like the one he had with a salarian spectre, "Good Samaritan, Mr. Verner has returned. He is outside and waiting to see you."

"Very good. Send him in," he ordered loudly enough to be heard through the door, but not enough to be shouting. He straightened his shirt and quickly retrieved his cap from his desk to cover up his messy and unkempt hair, not wanting any evidence of his inconsistent sleep schedule to be noticeable. The low lighting of the room, as well as the cover his hat offered, would hopefully hide the red rings developing beneath the brim.

Moments later, the door slid open, Krend barely visible in the corridor outside as he returned to his post, enormous red and brown armor making him look even more gargantuan than he already was. He had a claymore shotgun holstered on his back, and the heavy, absurdly large warhammer he carried on his back looked large enough to pancake steel and liquify bone. He was a fearsome sight, which made his position as a bodyguard all the more useful. Conrad Verner stepped out from infront of him, entering the room and coming to stand infront of the Samaritan's desk as the door behind him slid shut, leaving the two men alone.

"I have returned from my mission, Mr. Samaritan," Conrad announced. It was a time like this that he noticed Conrad's lack of a military background was obvious in his posture: he simply stood there, hands at his sides and carrying an all-around casual and comfortable demeanour. That would be one of the many things the Crusader changed in his organization once he finally took over.

And, if Conrad's presence was any indication, that was going to happen very soon.

He nodded, offering his hand to his lieutenant. Conrad seemed surprised by this but reached down and gradually shook it, before stepping back. Noticing the Samaritan was still looking at him, Conrad must have realized his mistake and shook his head, hitting his temple in an attempt at a facepalm, " _Oh_ , damn it. Sorry. You wanted my report."

"Yes," he replied simply, betraying none of his emotions in regards to Conrad's mistake. It was better to allow the doubt to linger, especially if it made the man think twice about how he composed himself in further briefings and debriefings.

Wasting no further time, he stepped forward again, offering his hand once more: this time, however, a datapad was rested in it, and he took it readily from the man's outstretched appendage, leaning back in his chair to read it, which gave a groan of protest at the sudden action. Ignoring the awful sound, his eyes ran over the report in earnest, feeling a slight smile wanting to tug at his lips as he read the first glimpses of success within its contents.

_Yes. Yes, yes, yes...very good. Just like most of the other missionary leaders, we seem to have struck a cord. With our Rannochian cell secured, pressing on with further operations will be made much easier, and we'll have ensured the safety of our members. Prove you can protect your people, and they will eat from your hands. Yes, this is very good indeed. People are our power base, so the more of them we have, especially from a large cross-section of species, will make this that much more easier. And quarians and geth too...their technical and analytical expertise will prove most opportune to the Faith. Might even be able to crack a few Council transmissions and networks to see what they're saying about us. Could prove helpful in planning our next moves moving forward._

The report made mention that the quarian and geth congregation, led by cell leader Nala'Seeram pav Rannoch, would arrive on Sanctum within the next few days: this matched up perfectly with the reports of the other missionaries from Palaven, Thessia, Khar'Shan, Sur'Kesh, and the rest. By then, the Shepardist Sanctuary would be fully operational, and would increase their total numbers from just a few hundred to just over two thousand, at least on Sanctum. This news made him very happy.

What he read next...dimmed that happiness significantly. Conrad's secret secondary objective had been to convince the Crusader to come out of the shadows, and to keep him apprised of his new army. Verner had seemed confident he could accomplish this task, as he knew the man personally and had run into him during his travels, and thus would be the easiest to get in the same room as him and get the word out. The Samaritan had thought this would be foolproof enterprise, but as it turned out, the entire thing had been botched from the start.

He had initially wanted to blame Conrad for disappointing the Crusader. His initial analysis of the Crusader's response to Conrad's arrival, which had been described as belligerent, annoyed and insulted, had been that Verner's meek personality and inability to take charge of a room or demand another's attention by presence alone was what dissuaded him. Or, perhaps, that the Samaritan had failed to show up himself, and that the Crusader had perceived sending one of his lieutenants in his stead as a slight against his character. His first instinct was to entirely blame Conrad.

But the other pieces of the puzzle simply didn't fit in. The quarian's presence was expected, but the hostility was an unknown variable the Samaritan, admittedly, had failed to account for, and that failure in intelligence was on him. He had known about the quarian from his visit to the Shepard estate last year, before meeting and taking over the cult. From what he remembered, she seemed to hold some importance to the Crusader, and what research he had done later had revealed her name to be Tali'Zorah, and that she was a member of the Crusader's squad from the Eden Prime conflict, all the way to the Reaper War. What little information he had gathered after that had led him to assume the quarian was just a friend of his, and that he had stumbled upon one of her visits, and that it was nothing more than that. However, that explanation hadn't really set well with him, especially when one considered the question of why Shepard had gone to all the trouble to build a house on a foreign world that had only just been reclaimed.

Conrad's report, if anything, shed further light on this issue. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence. The quarian was not only present again, but her behaviour and attitude seemed to suggest she wasn't just visiting...she  _lived_ there. She also had a varren, which she seemed to know quite well, and given the domesticated nature of the animal, this lent more credence to the theory she was more than just a friend. What happened afterwards, with her caring and gentle behavioural change when the Crusader exited the house, confirmed what was now far more evident.

This quarian, Tali'Zorah, was the Crusader's lover. An unexpected turn of events, but one that now made sense within the scope of what the Samaritan had learnt from the encounters he had observed and read about. This didn't entirely flip their understanding of the Crusader's personality upside down, but it certainly presented an obstacle. From the looks of things, the Crusader's reluctance to accept Conrad's words, and Tali'Zorah's support of that stance, had thrown a wrench into their operations. Everything the Samaritan wanted to do from this point forward, plus his ability to take advantage of the Council's distracted state, hinged on the Crusader finally beginning his reawakening to eventual ascendancy.

Now it couldn't happen. The Crusader had rejected them, their beliefs, and their ideals. He had said as such, according to Conrad's report. Now, he could call the man a liar, but that was unlikely. As he said, Conrad was at least devoted to the cause, if not to the Samaritan, so he had no reason to lie in affairs that had nothing to do with him directly. No, what he said was the God's honest truth, and what this truth revealed was shocking. He had assumed many things about the Crusader's reaction, and all of them had been misses.

His developing satisfaction gone, replaced with a cold pit in his stomach, he placed the datapad back on his desk, and remained stoically quiet for a moment. He silence got to the moment where even Conrad was becoming comfortable with it, shifting back and forth impatiently as he deigned to know the Samaritan's thoughts on his debrief. Finally, just as he was about to ask, the Samaritan spoke, looking up at him, "Before I say anything...I want you to know that I do not condemn you, or hold you responsible, for the Crusader has unveiled to you in this report. It has shocked me, angered me, disappointed me...but none of it is your fault. Part of it is my own failure."

"Your failure, Mr. Samaritan?" Conrad asked, cocking his head. He clearly had expected many responses from his mysterious leader, but none of them had involved self-accountability.

"I knew of the quarian," he admitted, standing up from behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back as he paced across the room, Conrad's eyes watching him dutifully for any changes in behaviour, "I didn't think she would be an issue, and as such, I failed to inform you of her existence in the Crusader's life. I erred in that regard, and I apologize. Its become obvious to me that I've underestimated her, and in some ways, overestimated the Crusader's devoutness. I had believed this mission to be presciently determined. I was wrong."

_How could I have failed so miserably? I supposedly knew the Crusader in my previous life, yet I wasn't able to account for this or the importance of this Tali'Zorah in his life. These are two very important factors to take into account, and I failed to account for either. Foolish. Irresponsible. The Crusader is a hero, a martyr for freedom and righteousness...I thought we shared that. All the evidence seemed to point to that. But the quarian and her involvement in-_

He stopped pacing, eyes going wide as he looked up suddenly. Licking his lips, he stutter stepped as he pivoted to face Conrad directly, who finally took notice of the Samaritan's sudden change in mood. He opened his mouth to form a question, but the Samaritan simply held up a finger to silence him, doing so as he returned to his desk industriously, snatching up his datapad and scrolling back down to the bottom, to the part where Tali'Zorah and her actions were mentioned by Conrad. Finally, after a few moments, he found the part he was looking for, and read over it a few more times, running it through his head.

_"...she seemed to approach me aggressively..."_

_"...didn't want me speaking to the Crusader, went to great lengths to keep me away, and even summoned a varren she called 'Urz', which I assumed to be her pet, to try and scare me away..."_

_"...the Crusader seemed tamed, almost emotionally cradled, by her whenever she spoke. Seems to hold great sway over..."_

_"...after the Crusader left, she whispered to me something that seemed overtly threatening. Doesn't seem to like me or our organization very much..."_

Those four lines, and the descriptions they entailed, painted a very specific picture in her mind. From the get go, her actions seemed to direct the Crusader's responses and his boorish orientation towards Conrad. She was the first to greet him, and the last to speak with him. Her voice seemed to guide and direct the Crusader's emotions, almost like an emotional chain. She tugged, he yielded. Her temperamental and harsh bearing towards Verner seemed desperate and staged, like she was trying to prove something...like she was trying to keep the Crusader safe from-

From Conrad. From the Samaritan. From  _us_.

When he thought of Shepard, he thought of a Crusader. A man willing to fight for justice, and to liberate civilization from the jaws of barbarity, decimation and corruption. He was a warrior. A hero.

But when he thought of the quarian, after everything he had read...only one word came to mind. One title, above all others, seemed fitting.

The Herald.

"Mr. Samaritan?" Conrad asked, his concern growing to a level that was now begging to be assuaged. He had his head lowered, trying to gain the Samaritan's attention. He got it, with the man looking up from the datapad, allowing it to slip from his grasp and back onto the desk. He looked at Conrad directly, gulping as he formulated an appropriate answer that would salvage Conrad's confidence.

"Another player in the game has made themselves known, Mr. Verner," he declared, walking around the desk and grabbing Conrad by the shoulders and holding him there firmly. Conrad didn't dare move, simply looking back at him with wide eyes and a curious expression that screamed shock and confusion. He wasn't going to keep him guessing, "This wasn't a failure...this was a success. If I hadn't sent you to Rannoch to inform the Crusader of his true calling, we may never have come across this information."

"...a  _success_?" Conrad asked bafflingly, looking at the Samaritan as if he was a madman, "Good Samaritan, the Crusader hates us!"

"Yes, but now we know why," he elaborated, his look anguished and troubled as he explained his revelation, "We were such fools. We were so focused on bringing about the Advocation, that we didn't bother to think about the first step: the enlightenment. The revelation. We've misunderstood his destiny: the enlightenment isn't meant for the galaxy. Its meant for him.  _He_ must be enlightened."

"I'm...so  _confused_ ," Conrad groaned, looking like his head was about to explode from the lack of answers.

"The Crusader is trapped," he continued, "He has been manipulated. Tricked. The war has weakened him, and one person has taken advantage of that vacuum to keep him under lock and key. To keep him on a tight leash, and ignorant of his power. The Crusader needs us to  _save him_. From himself, but most importantly, from the Herald. The Crusader's arch nemesis."

"So...like a supervillain?" Conrad asked dumbly, trying to explain the situation away in a layman's version that he could understand in its entirety, "You've never mentioned this Herald before. I thought the Crusader's enemies were the Council. Are they the Herald?"

"No, we only thought they were. They are only an obstacle...the true test comes from the Crusader's need to defeat the Herald. They are the last obstacle to the Crusader's duty. He cannot rise to power and wage his campaign of unification and galactic liberation until he has slain his nemesis, the Herald. We didn't know about the Herald because they,  _she_ , has been hiding under our noses all along. She's been there since the beginning. Plotting, scheming, destroying everything. She's his confidant, his companion, his best friend...but all along, she has been his enemy."

"Who?" Conrad asked, practically begging for an answer at this point,  _"Who_ is the Herald?"

He released Conrad and scrambled for the desk, grabbing the datapad before practically shoving it in his face, " _She is_. The quarian. Tali'Zorah. The woman who pretends to love the Crusader. The evidence is there: she tried to keep him from you, and got hostile when you wouldn't leave. The way he acts when she's around him: he acts the way  _she_ wants. The threat she delivered afterwards? The contempt the Crusader, a man of virtue and high morality, has for his valued followers? Its staring us  _right in the face_! Tali'Zorah is the Herald!"

It finally clicked, and Conrad's posture slouched, all tension releasing from his body as it finally sunk in what the Samaritan was getting at. He looked down at the datapad being shoved in his face, eyes drifting down to find the single solitary picture of Tali'Zorah, an image he had grabbed off the extranet Codex article about her, "Oh..."

"We've been fighting the wrong enemies the wrong way, looking for them in the wrong place, and waiting for them at the wrong time...the Council can wait. The galaxy can wait. Our mission, our purpose, our mission...rests here. The Crusader must be rescued. He must be shown the light. He must be released from his manipulation. The same corruption he is destined to fight, that we are all destined to fight, is the same one that is keeping him tethered. The Herald, his enemy of the prophecy, resides in his home, under his roof, disguised as his lover. We must act fast, Mr. Verner. Our new task is ever so clear."

He dumped the datapad, and the two men's eyes remained locked on the still, holographic image of Tali'Zorah. A woman who was no longer just a periphery concern. She was now the enemy.  _The_ enemy.

The Herald.

* * *

 _CSS Normandy SR-2, en route to Rannoch - January 20, 2188 - Ten minutes later_.

"You don't need to apologize, Shepard. Least of all to me."

"I was wrong, and you deserve to know that. We've been through too much together for us to continue bickering like this."

Garrus just sat and listened. The past few days had been very stressful for the turian, with him having to deal with an array of problems that had cropped up. Returning to the Citadel without the Samaritan in his custody was bad enough in the Council's eyes, but to tell them that Shepard had blatantly told them to take their order and shove it hadn't sat well with them either. Sparatus, in his anger, had suggested sending a Spectre unit to arrest him and bring him in, but the other Council members had quickly shot that down, highlighting the obvious in that bringing in Shepard would a) anger the public, as they wouldn't like seeing their war hero in cuffs and being dragged around by government thugs and b) it would achieve nothing, as arresting Shepard for simply not giving a speech would be foolhardy, and wouldn't convince him to say anything. Not to mention that Shepard himself had defeated threats far more dangerous than a Spectre team. He'd killed two spectres already, in fact. Dirty, seditious spectres, for sure, but killed architects of death nonetheless. Not to mention that Shepard was now the new favourite Spectre, even if he was retired. No one in OPSCOM would lift a finger to follow that order.

Suffice to say, the Council had chewed him out for that. His first major operations as a spectre weren't turning out all that well. He'd failed to apprehend the Samaritan and end the threat he posed, and now he hadn't even been able to convince Shepard to give a speech. He must have seemed pretty incompetent to them, and that to him had only fueled his anger towards Shepard, however irrational it was. He had been bitter for days following that argument, completely convinced that Shepard's blissful ignorance and non-interventionist policy was only fanning the flames. Only yesterday, further proof in the pudding arrived in the form of the Kepcedah Bombing. The death toll was staggering, and the Samaritan was a part of it. To know that Shepard was willfully ignoring such enormities had rubbed him the wrong way before, but then it had been tenfold.

But a part of him, deep down, knew Shepard wouldn't look past this. He wasn't that far gone...he was still a good man, with a strong moral compass, and no matter how badly he wanted to sit in rhapsodic harmony, his code, his warrior ethos, would not allow him to sit idle for long. An event would occur that would spur him to action once more. And, unfortunately, that very action had occurred.

And now Shepard was contacting him. Once he had received word from EDI of the intercepted communique, he had known what it was for, and had ordered they depart from dock and immediately set a course for Rannoch. It was simply no coincidence that just after the bombing was made public, and the media had reported on it, that Shepard was now trying to contact him. It could only mean he had finally come around.

His old terminal was...a bit of a shambles. After their last argument and Shepard's abrupt disconnect, Garrus had, in a fit of shock and frustration, turned his discontent on his helpless computer, and the device had paid the price. Afterwards, after he had cleaned up what was left of it, he had gone to the Citadel and bought a new one...good thing the solid state drive was salvageable.

Shepard had spent a good part of the conversation apologizing for his actions. Apparently Garrus wasn't the first to berate him with this reality: he had been doing that to himself long before the turian had begun wording it. And with Tali having begun to agree with him, a nice good wake up call had been delivered to Shepard's front door. He knew he had been in the wrong, and he was determined to make amends for it. And while he was adamant his involvement remain purely diplomatic, with zero combat operations, he was willing to make a difference and come make this speech. Garrus couldn't contain his gratitude.

_The tide is finally turning. Once their 'Crusader' disavows them, they'll be left without allies. Shepard will make more of a difference than he could know with just one speech._

"Well, I'm just glad you've changed your mind, Shepard," Garrus assured him, leaning forward with a nod, "And if we're doing apologies, then its my turn. I shouldn't have called you a coward. You're not. And while your actions might be selfish, I totally understand and accept them. I can't expect you to play hero forever, and neither can the rest of the galaxy. Spirits, let's just hope this is the last time you even have to talk to the Council ever again."

Shepard just scoffed, "That'll be the day. Tali's packing up her stuff while I quickly find a hotel suite to rent while we're on the Citadel. When do you think you'll be here?"

"Two, three days, maximum. Your fault for being so damn far away," the turian chuckled, clearly intending for that last part to be a joke. Shepard saw it as such, laughing right along with him. With a sigh exchanged between the two of them, Garrus couldn't help but express his gratitude to the human in a far less vague manner, "Shepard, I just want you to know that I think you're doing the right thing. You didn't have to do this."

"At this point, I don't think I have a choice," was the human's sincere response, "I told you this before Garrus, but there comes a time in everybody's lives where we reach a crossroads. Make a decision, or don't. Choose the right path, the wrong one, or head back home. I've reached that crossroads again, Garrus. And no matter how badly I wanted to hold onto my decision, I just couldn't ignore it. Something has to be done. And if my help can further us along the path to a greater solution, then I'll gladly do my part."

The turian just smiled. That part sounded very familiar, "Sounds like the commander I know."

"Yeah..." he trailed off wistfully, before shaking his head to clear his thoughts, "Anyway, I better get back to it...I'll see you in a few days, okay?"

"We'll be there, Shepard," Garrus said in farewell, "Say hello to Tali for me. Talk again soon."

"Will do," was the last word the former commander and spectre offered in parting before cutting the connection. Laying back in his seat with an exhale of breath, he took a moment to think about what to do next before finally deciding on something. Looking up, he addressed his ship's AI directly, "EDI, whereabouts on Ashley and Churchill?"

"They are currently located in the shuttle bay," she replied instantly. Being a part of the ship, if not the ship itself, EDI knew everything that went on within its hull, including the locations of every individual crew member at any given time, "Churchill appears to be running checks on weapon inventory."

Garrus frowned at that, "I thought Ashley had claimed the armoury. She's allowing Churchill to run the show?"

"It appears so."

Garrus just sniggered at that, standing up and heading out of his cabin into the elevator as he hit the button for Deck 5.  _Who would have thought...Ashley, the Alliance marine who was suspicious of aliens, was stuck permanently at shitty postings with a shitty rank and whose hatred of the geth for killing her squad was only eclipsed by that of Tali...who end up calling aliens her best friends, would become the second human Spectre and obtain Shepard's former rank, and allow a geth to run her armoury. Ashley is like a living example of how much we've all come, and how much we've all changed._

Technically speaking, Ashley didn't run the armoury on the  _Normandy_...she wasn't even an active member of the crew anymore. Back during the SR-1 days, she'd run the armoury alongside Kaidan, but during the Reaper War, she'd practically taken over it the moment she rejoined the crew, with Cortez and James just somewhat rolling over and letting her take charge (probably had a whole lot to do with her being part of Shepard's inner circle of friends, and thus her experience topped theirs). Once the war was over, Ashley returned to the Alliance, but was indefinitely placed on 'special assignment', which was just Hackett's military speak for allowing her to focus on her duties as a spectre. And given that spectres usually worked alone, that meant she no longer served on the  _Normandy_ as much as she would have liked to.

But, the hunt for the Samaritan was anything but a standard spectre operation. Hence why three spectres were working on the same ship together. Himself, Ashley and Churchill.

As the elevator descended, he temporarily thought about what Kasumi was up to. He hadn't seen the thief as of late, and from what he remembered EDI telling him, she'd spent most of her time on the Citadel since they got there. No doubt the crew recall would summon her back, allowing him to find out why she was avoiding him. He wouldn't call their relationship exactly by-the-books, and it was certainly nothing like what Shepard and Tali had. A few sporadic moments of passion, interspersed between longer gaps of beating around the bush. Kasumi was certainly the most eccentric woman he'd been with, but he couldn't really find much fault in that. For a turian, she was exotic. Different.

He initially believed their relationship was stress relief...after all, they only came to each other before the final battle on Earth, and even Kasumi had seemed to clarify that this was just to lay off some stress. But ever since the war ended, they seemed to grow closer, and Kasumi seemed to express no interest in breaking it off anytime soon. Perhaps there was more to it?

The elevator arrives on the fifth deck, derailing his train of thought. Looking up, he walked through the parting doors as he approached the armoury, where Ashley and Churchill were located. The shuttle pilot was nowhere to be seen, but that was no surprise: Cortez's consistent presence in the shuttle bay had been due to his array of skills, not because he was a pilot. As it was, their two UT-47A stealth shuttles were currently hanging from the ceiling, supported by cranes that latched around the heavy, cumbersome aircraft that the  _Normandy_ possessed. Apparently a newer model, the UT-47B, was currently in production that would fix the UT-47A's setbacks, which included its excessive weight, allowing it to further capitalize on its stealth capabilities. The UT-47A was somewhat rushed into production due to the Reaper War, and so what should have been a prototype turned into an active field model. It was a good thing that was being rectified, and Garrus hoped they'd be able to replace their 47A models with the 47B models once they were put into service.

He found Ashley and Churchill not far from the elevator. Ashley was on the far left, seated upon a crate she had pulled out. As per usual, she was wearing a light blue and black singlet around her torso, the Alliance Marine Corps logo (the Alliance insignia with a sword facing downwards striking through the middle, with two thunderbolts flanking it) along the front with 'Systems Alliance Marine Corps' along the bottom, with the Latin words ' _Per astra, fortiter_ ' ('Across the Stars, Bravely', according to his translator) along the top. She wore blue camo fatigues, with a belt holding them firmly to her waist, while her raven black hair was tied back in the usual ponytail that she seemed to favor (and which was apparently an Alliance marine regulation for human females). She sat with her legs spread out in front of her, the breastplate from her armor laid out across them, the marine holding a cloth that she was using to scrub and polish it.

The armor was a unique combination of Ashley's creation: being a spectre, she was now in charge of providing and maintaining her own equipment, which included her body armor. She had chosen to keep her standard issue HYPERION-87 combat armor, but had made various additions to it. The blue and black finish was replaced with custom paint job of light red and dark black, with a Spectre logo replacing the Alliance one along her front and the shoulderplates. The breastplate was largely upgraded with the frontal plate taken from a female variant of the HYPERION-107 special forces kit (otherwise known as N7 armor), and swapped out the old kinetic barrier for a stronger one. She added a larger faceguard shoulderplate on the left side, and removed most of the more burdensome parts of the armor. Ultimately, the modifications were made to suit Ashley's modus operandi as a spectre, which involved going in fast, brutally and precisely. She thought like a marine, and that ideology had passed on into her work as a shadow operative.

Churchill, as EDI had told him, was at the armoury, currently disassembling, analyzing and reassembling their weapons at a mind-spinningly intense rate. Churchill was an odd sort when it came to geth, and that said a lot coming from someone who had spoken to Legion: the most peculiar geth he had ever met up until this point. Not only were they the only geth spectre in existence at the moment, but they were also the only geth he knew of that had adopted a 'female' persona. Everything from the voice and how the geth interacted was attempting to emulate feminine emotions, interactions and actions. No doubt this was part of a larger geth social experiment surrounding organics...another attempt at trying to understand how they worked and how best to develop their newly found intelligence. For this, Churchill was a unique sort. She was a standard trooper platform, but was unique in that she used a different color scheme to most other geth. Most used uniform colors, such as red, blue, yellow, etc. But Churchill had a sort of blue camo scheme going on, with numerous dots all over that covered most blue color ranges. He had no idea what the aim of it was, as the age of tactical cloaks made painted camoflauge largely irrelevant, but it only served to add to the geth's list of idiosyncracies. Unique was too light a word to accurately describe her.

 _She fits right in, though. Eccentricity is the game on the Normandy_.

Churchill must have heard the door opening, because the moment Garrus began approaching them, the geth was already turning around to address him. Ashley, seeing this, looked up, and upon seeing him, placed the cloth beside her and nodded in his direction. Neither of them saluted, although that was understandable: Garrus was not their superior officer, and even if he was, all three of them were spectres...the only people of authority they answered to was the Council.

"Garrus," Ashley greeted, removing the breastplate sitting on her legs and placing it with the rest of the dismantled pieces of armor resting at her feet, "Got an update for us?"

"I do," he replied succintly, motioning for Churchill to come over. The geth did as suggested, and once he knew he had both their collective attentions, he continued, "Shepard just contacted me. He's come around. I've just had Joker set a course for Rannoch. We're wheels up in a few minutes, and it'll take us around two/three days to get there."

Ashley seemed happy with that outcome, "I knew skipper would come around eventually. He's a marine. Can never stray far from the action for too long."

"I assume Shepard-Commander was convinced to get involved due to the events of the Kepcedah Bombing?" Churchill asked.

"Yeah. Saw it on the news. Says he can't simply wait around and allow the Samaritan to continue doing what he's doing any longer," the turian elaborated, providing further context behind Shepard's final decision, "We all knew this would happen. The Samaritan has gone too far this time. I just hope we can end this quickly so we can all get our happy endings."

Ashley just laughed, "We've fought skyscraper-sized machines, taken down spectres, crippled an information empire, and systematically obliterated the most effective and brutal supremacist terorist organization in the last four centuries of galactic history. Are we really going to start getting concerned about a bunch of religious zealots? We've dealt with worse, and come out cleaner than we thought. At least the stakes aren't as high."

_No, taking down a few of Shepard's trigger-happy fanboys is a massive step down from putting an end to billion-year-old cycles of galactic genocide. This should be a cake walk. Even if the Samaritan has eluded us, he won't be able to much longer. We have a Shadow Broker, and eventually, he'll make a mistake, slip up and we'll be there waiting for him. Then we can all finally move on._

"I find this fixation on personal hubris and severe underestimation of one's belligerents to be puzzling," Churchill admitted, with Ashley and Garrus turning to face the geth, "It would be prudent to better respect and properly assess the actions and capabilities of your adversary, thus accounting for possible situations in which the underestimated opponent could potentially outmanoeuvre you. We believed this to be the foundation from which human and turian militaries have developed their operational philosophy. Sun Tzu for humans, Adeplius for turians. Sun Tzu stated, and I quote, 'If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know-'"

Ashley and Garrus just laughed, holding up hands to signal the geth to stop. Garrus then reached forward and gripped the geth's shoulder, watching her optics turn to look at the hand, and then turn to look at him, headflaps twitching as she processed how to react, "We know that, Churchill. We were joking. Its an organic emotion called banter. We overestimate our skills to emphasize how jaded we are, and our experience. We have no intention of underestimating the Samaritan. I did that once, and it won't happen again."

"I see," was the simple reply, the geth nodding in emulation of the organic trait, "Legion made mention of this. He found it puzzling, but later tried to join this ritual. He was not successful, but I shall endeavour to make further attempts. Legion taught us much about organics, but it appears we have much more to learn."

Hearing about Legion hurt Garrus, but only because of how much he, admittedly, missed the geth. But knowing that a part of him lived on in all geth, fragments of his personality and collective knowledge had been scattered and implanted in all geth from that point forward, was reassuring. In a way, Legion was now the geth. The geth were now Legion.

He did not die in vain.

"Don't worry, Churchill," Ashley added, retrieving her breastplate, "Stick with us, and you'll learn a life's worth of interesting content."

"Understood, Williams-Commander."

Garrus took his leave then. He had informed Ashley and Churchill of their mission deviation, and now it was time to inform the crew. Even as he entered the elevator and hit the button for Deck 3, simultaneously ordering EDI to have the crew gather in the mess hall, he felt a massive amount of stress leaking from his form, spilling out and leaving him feeling more relaxed than he had been when he started. Things were finally going their way. The crisis the Shepardists had spun up had been spiralling out of control, and it still was, but now with Shepard returning temporarily to condemn their actions, it looked like the tide was finally going to turn in their favor.

The Samaritan's days were numbered.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**And the plot escalates! The Samaritan has a new target, Shepard is finally getting involved...you guys wanted the plot to go somewhere, so I delivered. Not saying it'll start speeding up now plot-wise, as we've still got quite a few chapters before that happens (around 9), but we're getting there. The first ten chapters were what I call the 'build-up' phase. Roughly the next fifteen will be the 'crisis' phase.** _

_**For those who may have noticed...yes, Ashley's armor is her Spectre armor variant in the Alliance Warpack mod.** _

_**Anyway, I'll be doing a Flashpoint prompt next before moving onto Chapter 11. Rest assured, things are falling into place! And I hope I'm keeping you guys on your toes in regards to the Samaritan! Let me know what your theories are on his identity, and what you think his next move will be. ;)** _

_**Until next time,** _

_**Keelah se'lai, troopers!** _

_**Music suggestions:** _

**Shock at Ground Zero: "Shadow of Chernobyl" by Stephen Barton from the game** _**Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare.** _

**On the News: "Raven Rock" by Anthony Gonzalez and Susanne Sundfør from the film** _**Oblivion.** _

**The Samaritan and the Herald: "Properties of Explosive Materials" by Jóhann Jóhannsson from the film** _**Arrival** _ **.**

**Garrus Is Relieved: "Dodged a Bullet" by Greg Laswell.**


	12. The Citadel Address

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard gives a damning speech. The Samaritan gives the Faith a new mission.

" _Laudy laud! is my new phrase for the hero worship that butters the human bread._ " - Linda Robinson.

* * *

_Royal London Hospital, England, Earth - May 28, 2187 - Seven months since Shepard's retrieval._

_For the first time in months, he could move without excess pain. His legs weren't on fire. His arms weren't on fire. Aside from obvious instability in his right leg, and the aches that came with months of being bed ridden, he felt right. He was no longer a burden. A man who was lying and waiting to die...he was alive, free, and moving. The feeling of that alone was exhilarating in a hundred thousand different ways...but perhaps, most importantly of all, it was measured as a milestone. A finish line he had now crossed where no trophies were awarded...only the knowledge that it was finally over._

_For the seven months that had passed since Shepard's crew had found and retrieved him from the rubble of the Citadel, he had spent the vast majority of it sealed off in a sterile white chamber, tended to by doctors in sterile white uniforms, while wearing a so-light-he-might-as-well-be-naked sterile white gown. Everywhere he had looked, sterile white was everywhere. It had become blinding at times...and he had even begun to wonder if his perception of the visible spectrum was permanently skewed, because all he could see was white._

_Except Tali. She was a purple dot in a sea of bleach._

_Without it needing to be said, he was getting really tired of being cooped up inside. Doctor Stoneman would occasionally grant him the freedom to walk up and down the hall, but that's about as far as he got. In his condition, he simply wasn't fit to be wandering too far from the hospital. Tali, of course, had sided with the doctor...leaving Shepard outnumbered on a two to one basis. So he bit his tongue, kept his peace, and silently suffered through his reluctant indignity. With all the surgery finished in the first two months of his stay, all he was really doing was undertaking the agonizingly slow process of recuperation and convalescence. Instructing his body how to function properly again._

_And aside from the 'incident' he had encountered a fortnight ago (one he shuddered to contemplate the long-term consequences of, not that he wanted to remember it at all), he was almost completely ready to leave. Stoneman had promised he could leave within a month...and he had delivered. All that was left to do was leave this damn room of his, and make progress towards his greater salvation._

_Luckily for him, Tali was there with him, every step of the way. She was just as excited as he was to escape the room, although he imagined that, as a quarian, she was quite accustomed to non-descript, featureless walls due to her lifestyle on the Fleet. Still, she had remained unrelenting in her attachment to him, and the two were practically glued at the hip: only upon Stoneman's insistence would she ever leave the room while she was in it. She would also duck out for a bit sometimes to talk with the crew downstairs on Shepard's progress or to grab him and herself a bite to eat, but aside from that, she could always be found in that chair beside his bed. She read books, listened to music or played games on her omni-tool while he slept, and she helped motivate him in his calisthenics and physical therapy when he was awake. She had made him her personal, and paramount, duty._

_Shepard didn't deserve her, but he was certainly honored to have someone like her._

_The crew had popped in every once and a while to say hello and chat for a bit. They served as his portal to the outside world, feeding him news and information of which direction the galaxy was headed while he was recovering. Aside from official confirmation of the Reaper threat being neutralized (which was news nobody needed, but appreciated all the same), the galaxy wasn't making leaps and strides...if anything, they were taking it one step at a time. The Citadel Council was restored to power almost immediately, repairs on the Citadel and Earth had begun, communications between key star systems were restored, the mass relays were operational once more thanks to the combined efforts of the geth, STG and Admiral Xen...the reconstruction efforts were moving at a steady pace. The Beam had been demolished, and most of the Reaper hulks removed from London's skyline. For the first time since the Alliance Charter was passed into law...Alliance forces were permitted to operate on Earth, with approval from every single Earth nation._

_News from elsewhere wasn't all bad either. Sur'Kesh, largely untouched by the war, had dispatched its remaining military assets to help its asari and turian neighbours, while the quarians and geth on Rannoch, along with the krogan on Tuchanka, sent their own teams to assist as well. Aria T'Loak had also pledged the Terminus Systems to the reconstruction efforts in the meantime, although with her being stuck on Earth, far from her little kingdom on Omega, she really didn't have much choice. Everybody was in this together._

_He knew it wouldn't hold together...he held no illusions of lasting peace and cooperation between the major powers. But everybody understood the galaxy was a shambles at the moment, and nobody was quite ready to return the status quo just yet. The political power plays, espionage and political egos could wait while the Milky Way recovered. Even the Alliance and what was left of the Hegemony were willing to put aside their differences just long enough to restore order to their societies. If they could work together, nobody else had a legitimate excuse worth mentioning._

_So nobody could claim Shepard wasn't kept up to date on the goings on beyond these four walls, and certainly not him. Even still though, hearing about it from asking the people responsible would have been much preferable, rather than hearing it through second-hand knowledge. But, the doctor's orders were clear, so he was going to sit tight and not move so much as an inch unless the doctor said so. As frustrating as it might have been, and as trapped as he felt, its not like he couldn't understand Stoneman's position: he was the doctor tasked with keeping Commander Shepard, a galactic hero, alive. That was a lot of stress to put on a man, so wanting to avoid any potential threats to that objective by keeping him under lock and key made sense._

_Shepard understood the reasons. That didn't make them any less exasperating, especially when Stoneman had been effectively treating him like a porcelain dish._

_But today was the day. Seven months and some painstakingly long and arduous work later, Shepard was finally going to walk through that threshold one final time, never to return (hopefully). All he had seen was four sterile walls and a few meters of corridor beyond that. For over half a year, that had been his entire universe. But now he was going to walk through those doors, and finally put it all behind him. And, perhaps most importantly, he would be leaving the past with it._

_He'd be lying if he said he wasn't troubled by this epiphany: the realization that he no longer had a mission to complete, a commander to report to, people to see urgently...he didn't have a target on his back, people who needed his help...he was truly free. He could take his time and move at his own pace...once he left this room, it wouldn't be to gear up and hit planetside boots first, rifle at the ready...it would be to calmly share drinks with some friends, exchange some laughs, and then ponder peacefully on what tomorrow might bring. It should have felt peaceful, undaunting, and most of all, relieving. But all he felt was uncertainty, dread and trepidation._

_Tomorrow held surprises, and the days after that. He hated surprises. He considered himself lucky enough that the surprises would at least be limited to a few hugs, and not an enemy ambush or another world falling to Reaper forces. He could at least find solace in that, and allow it to disspell the more overly cautious, paranoid aspects of his fretful mind._

_For now, all that mattered was that the shackles had been kicked loose, and he was walking for the first time in a while for a reason other than working tired, unused muscles. His final battle had been won. For him, the war was now officially over. He had defeated the Illusive Man, Harbinger...and now the physical limitations of his own body. Despite the very cybernetics built into him to resurrect him trying to reverse the process every step of the way, he had refused to simply close his eyes and never wake up. He had fought tooth and nail to be where he was, and to even be in that hospital bed, drawing breath, was enough for him to show the Reapers that they hadn't succeeded in killing him. That, despite the universe's best efforts to put him down for good, he simply wasn't having it._

_He had died once, and all it did was allow him to return...better, and stronger. He was here to stay. However uncertain the future was, he could be sure of that much._

_He had a house to build. A promise to keep. A woman to marry. He had everything he could ever want. Sure, his predicament had ensured he would never serve as a marine again. His military career was effectively over. He could more than likely stay on with a cozy desk job, or even accept the Admiral's promotion that he had earned through blood and sacrifice, but none of it was in the thick of the action: that's where he belonged. On the battlefield, side by side with his men and giving them a reason to fight on. He couldn't do that from a desk, far from combat. He couldn't do that as an admiral, watching the battle from the safety of a vessel's bridge. No, his time for battle was done._

_So yes, the future is very much in the air. A nebulous, far off journey that has yet to be scripted...has no clear outline. I'm optimistic, but cautiously so. But that was probably the most thrilling part of it. His destiny was now a rudderless ship that lacked direction, and he was content with that. It meant a new beginning was cresting the horizon. A whole new galaxy full of occupational possibilities. And, if none of that was intriguing enough, then the simple fact that Tali would share this journey with him was. He could do none of it without her._

_His cogitations were interrupted by the sound of the door to his room opening. He was not lying down as he was usually encouraged to do so, and was currently pedalling his legs up and down, reworking energy into his underused, atrophied legs. Tali was sat beside him, engrossed in a novel she had purchased off the extranet a while ago, but had only now been afforded the time to read. Her legs were crossed, one of them bobbing up and down lightly in what he could only call a fidgeting motion. The book she was reading was actually an asari romance-political thriller that was written in the early 1300s, and involved a mysterious quarian intelligence agent defecting to the Asari Republics in an effort to stop a war between his people and the batarians. His asari handler helps him in his mission to escape the powerful and all-knowing quarian Kas'iteh-19 intelligence agency, and their chase leads them across the galaxy, where they eventually become friends, and even lovers. Shepard had to snort at that last part: it appeared Tali was a stickler for romance, especially ones that involved her own people. Her favourite film was Fleet and Flotilla, and from how much she had read of that book in just two hours, it seemed this book was her favourite too._

_Still, it kept her happy, and she had already purchased and queued up all the sequels. She had even learnt of a low budget movie adaptation that she planned to watch, even if it only had a cult following, and the critical reviews weren't all that satisfied with it. Yet again, Fleet and Flotilla had mixed reviews upon release, so perhaps it really was just down to her taste._

_Whatever the case, both their eyes were torn from their respective activities to eye the guest, and watched as Doctor Stoneman entered, donning the usual white doctor's coat and datapad in one hand (at this point, he could have sworn the datapad was part of his body, considering he never left go of it)._

_"Doctor," Shepard greeted, pulling himself to his feet, and groaning as his legs yielded to the weight placed upon them and stood their ground, refusing to allow him to topple over, "I'm guessing you have the results of my latest physical therapy?"_

_Stoneman nodded, donning a smile. Good. Stoneman was a simple man when it came to expression: stone-faced if he held grim news, a smile if he was delivering jubilation. It was a process Shepard took comfort in being able to master the translation of, because it made it a whole lot easier to tell what the doctor would say next, "Yes, and most of its good, Mr. Shepard. Miss Lawson's surgery has worked far greater than we hoped, and has helped to stabilize your implants to acceptable levels, and to the point where you won't need to be supervized any longer...no more incidents like what we encounted two weeks ago. You would tell me if you had any such relapses, wouldn't you?"_

_"Of course," Shepard promised._

_Stoneman turned to Tali, the two having become accomplices in Shepard's recovery process, "Is that true?"_

_Tali nodded, "I've been with him the entire time since then, believe me, doctor. He just needs to take it easy." She eyed him with a glare on that one, and he couldn't help but roll his eyes. He had gotten enough of a lecture from both her and Stoneman after the incident, he didn't need constant reminding. It was bad enough that it had happened at all._

_Satisfied with that answer, the doctor continued, scrolling down his datapad, "The MRI scans we've run on you have all turned up negative for new injuries. We've cross referenced your current condition with your medical history...and Miss T'Soni procured your military medical documents for us, and according to those, you're a clean bill of health. I don't want to know how she got access to those documents, but regardless, they may have just helped speed up the release process, so you can thank her for that."_

_He smirked at that, eying Tali, who held a smile of her own. Liara being the Shadow Broker wasn't known to anyone outside of the Normandy crew, and it was kept that way on purpose: can't operate from the shadows if everybody knows whose lurking in them. From the way Tali held his gaze, nodding at him, he just knew that she had a hand in getting Liara to acquire those papers. He didn't really care: if Tali and Liara's actions got him out of here quicker, then he was all for it._

_"You'll need to be put on a prescription of anti-rejection tablets to help your body's old implants accept the new ones, which should hopefully avoid any further episodes," Stoneman elaborated, lowering his datapad, "You'll need to take them for a while...perhaps a couple of years, then after that we'll see how your body is coping, and whether or not you can stop taking them. You're practically patient zero when it comes to a case like this, so we'll need to take treatment of this slow, and treat it like the experiment it is. You might hate it, but as long as it keeps you from being put in a permanent coma, I don't think you'll find much to complain about. With all that said, I've spoken with my team, and they're all agreed. You're free to go."_

_Just the words he wanted to hear. All three of them had known today would be the day, but procedure demanded Stoneman go through the proper motions to make it official. Now that he had done that, there was nothing stopping him from leaving. Shepard just smiled, reaching forward to shake the man's hand, "Doctor Stoneman, I just want you to know that I appreciate all you've done for me in this painful process of recovery, and that you've done me a greater service than you could know."_

_For his part, Stoneman looked like he had been put on the spot, and not quite knowing what to say. After a moment, all he could think to do was simply shake Shepard's hand in return, chuckling to himself, "Mr. Shepard, you saved the entire galaxy. My wife and kids are alive thanks to you and your team, so the best I could do is keep our savior alive. I would have taken it as a personal failing had you perished under my watch."_

_There are plenty of soldiers who deserve the same amount of care, though. Shepard wasn't special simply because he led those forces. They did most of the work. Despite these thoughts however, Shepard elected to keep them to himself, not seeing the point in ruining the moment for the good doctor, "Nevertheless, a thank you is in order. I wouldn't be here without you."_

_He probably just made Stoneman's day with that comment, who couldn't remove the smile from his face if he tried. He simply shook Shepard's hand appreciatively, before turning to leave the room, "Head downstairs to the cafe. I'll handle your prescription. I think your crew are getting impatient waiting for you, and the cafe staff don't have enough ingredients in stock to keep feeding two hungry krogan with burgers."_

_He managed a low snigger at that, as did Tali, the two of them finding it far too easy to picture Wrex and Grunt downing burger after burger to satiate their hunger while two terrified cafe workers watched on, never daring to deny them what they wanted out of fear of reprisal. Only when Shepard asked them to stop would they probably do so, and even then, only reluctantly._

_As Stoneman left, Shepard was turning to his bedside and grabbing what few things he had with him in the hospital room that had been his home for over half a year: a water bottle that was half-full, and a single, blood encrusted photo of an unsuited, unmasked Tali that he had propped up against the desk light. Despite its clearly damaged condition, Shepard had refused to replace it as Tali had suggested a month ago, the picture itself having stayed by his side throughout the Battle of London, and thus being one of the reasons he had been motivated to fight on. It was simply too important to him to throw it out: he would keep it, even if Tali felt a substitute would be better._

_He put the photo in the top left breast pocket of his shirt, before taking a swip of his bottle and fitting the cap back over it with a spin and a squeeze. With a deep breath, and a test wobble to ensure his balance wasn't deceiving him, he reached out for Tali's hand, both to assist standing her up, and to walk out the door with him. Her omni-tool evaporating with a swipe of her hand, she took the offered appendage without question, letting it pull her up to stand, and giving it a gentle pinch of reassurance. Together, the two left the room, not the least bit interested in looking back as the doors closed behind them._

_The past was being left behind for a better tomorrow._

_His shortcomings were immediately apparent as they walked down the hallway: his usually purposeful and strong gait was interrupted by intense limping, brought on by the general uselessness of his right leg. He tried to minimalize how much he broadcasted the injury, not wanting to demonstrate weakness. He allowed Tali to guide him, acting as a counterbalance to his body's stubborn refusal to push on. Shepard was told this limp would likely be there for the rest of his life: a permanent scar that not even 22nd century medical science could correct. It was simply too badly damaged. He considered himself lucky they hadn't been forced to amputate, or otherwise he'd be forced to get a prosthetic replacement, and he had enough tech inside of him as it was._

_As people walked past, he could feel some eyes watching him. A few of them were Alliance personnel, and he saluted them as they did so, ignoring the fact that he was no longer enlisted, and thus shouldn't be treated as a superior officer, as he originally was. Others were civilians, either hospital staff, patients or the families of patients. Some walked on by, not noticing who he was or his presence. Others watched with steadfast wonder as he moved past them. He could see the look in some of their eyes: admiration. Gratitude. For the humans around him...pride. Pride in their own species, and the fact it had produced a man like him._

_Despite all of that, Shepard couldn't shake off the feeling that some of them were exhibiting other emotions: pity. Sympathy. Condolences. They saw his limp, and could only contemplate the sacrifices he had made to ensure ultimate triumph against the Reapers. They pitied him, and were sympathetic. He hated being reciprocal of that. It made him feel vulnerable. Weak. Soft._

_Tali on the other hand...she hated that he felt that way. She never put her discontent into words, but he felt it by just how much forced she exuded in holding his hand. She didn't care about his deficiency and shortcomings. He was her partner, her lover, her boyfriend...and she was not going to leave him simply because he wasn't in perfect shape, mentally or physically. He knew how she felt, and accepted it. But that didn't mean he reciprocated that belief._

_But perhaps that was ironic. After all, he had ignored the infirmities and stigmas that came from relationships with quarians, particularly in regards to their immune systems, a face nobody could see, and their history. And that was just with turians...for levos looking to be with quarians, the chiralty added a whole different set of problems. He had known this, even had Tali repeat it to him many times, but he hadn't care. Even when she got sick and they couldn't be together for weeks on end, he had remained adamant in his affection for her. Now that she was returning the favor, he was reluctant. It was cognitively dissonant._

_Instead of acknowledging the looks thrown in his direction, he tried his best to ignore them and just allowed himself to walk down the stairs in peace. A few minutes of walking passed until the couple finally made their way to the cafe, where he was immediately greeted by the strangely comforting sound of a loud roar originating from the counter._

_"Battlemaster! He_ _**lives** _ _!"_

_He barely got anytime to survey the cafe itself, which was dominated almost entirely by the Normandy's crew, before Grunt came barrelling forward, arms outstretched and maw wide open like a gaping black hole ready to consume him. The sight would have terrified anyone else, but to Shepard...he was like a child whose mum had come to pick him up from school._

_"Gr-" he wasn't afforded the time to finish his greeting before about a ton of pure reptilian muscle wrapped their arms around him in the krogan equivalent of a hug and nearly crushed him in a tight embrace. The human, tiny in comparison to the krogan supersoldier's stupendous height, found himself totally encompassed by the krogan, his face plunked against cold, uncomfortable armor plating._

_Hugging Tali, or basically anyone else, was comfortable. Enjoyable even. A krogan hugging you was like being crushed between a vice._

_Like a savior, Wrex laughed as he patted Grunt on the back, finding the sight of Shepard's comparatively tiny form crushed between krogan arms quite entertaining, "I think that's enough, Grunt. You've got to remember he's not a krogan. He's a fleshie, and he's not strong enough for a krogan hug."_

_Having noticed his error, Grunt pulled away, Shepard instinctively drawing in large amounts of air into his lungs as he tried to resupply them, groaning as his ribs notified the rest of his body of their displeasure. He looked up at Wrex, now grinning from ear to ear as he let go of Tali's hand, "The hug...was fine. Just...unprepared for it...that's all..."_

_The shrewd krogan chieftain waved a dismissive hand, "Don't try and defend yourself, Shepard. Its not shameful to barely survive a krogan hug...we're too tough a species for our own good," his grin was wicked, but welcome, and Shepard held up his hand to meet the krogan's, the two tapping their arms together in brotherly welcome, "How are you feeling, my friend?"_

_"I've certainly felt better," the former commander admitted, "But I'm alive and walking."_

_"Shit, Shepard," came the gravelly voice of Zaeed, the jaded mercenary walking around the gigantic hulk of Grunt to greet his former CO, "We better start a goddamn tally for the shit you've survived. I wish you'd just fucking die already so I can feel better about myself."_

_"This coming from the guy who survived a gunshot to the head, Zaeed?" Shepard countered, knowing the merc meant well._

_Zaeed just laughed, "Fuck, you're right. I guess some of us just get goddamn lucky. Just remember, third time is the charm. Just fucking quit while you're ahead. Death doesn't like it when you get cocky."_

_"Believe me, I plan on keeping my head low this time," Shepard assured them, "_ _**Very** _ _low. No more suicide missions for me."_

_Jacob just shook his head with a laugh as he joined the group gathering around Shepard, "I'll believe it when I see it."_

_"You won't have long to wait," he swore, grabbing Tali's hand once more, "I've already handed in my resignation to Hackett. Not long before I'm no longer a spectre too."_

_"So its actually happening," Ashley announced as she rounded Zaeed, her cross crossed and hair falling past her shoulders, literally letting her hair down off duty, "Skipper's handing in the uniform."_

_Frowning, he tried to look around them to see the cafe's interior, but quickly gave up when he couldn't see past either Grunt or Wrex. In the end, he simply scoffed and turned to the group asssembled before him, "Just how many of you are down here?"_

_"Pretty much the entire crew," Ashley revealed, stepping aside to give Shepard the view he was looking for. He found himself staring wide-eyed at the sight of every single table being taken up by a member of the Normandy crew, forming up a congregation that was a mish mash of different species, ranging affiliations, and only one unifying value: the man who lead them._

_"You guys didn't have to hang here, you know," he pointed out, feeling selfish for having drawn so much attention. It was silly, he knew that as soon as he felt the emotion, but to have all his friends and crewmates throwing aside their duties to be at his side seemed wrong, especially when there was so much work to do, "I would have understood if you chose to help the clean-up crews. I'm fully aware that I'm not the center of the universe, and nor would I ask you to treat me as such."_

_"How saintly of you," Garrus quipped, Shepard's brother-in-arms and de facto lieutenant moving up to lightly slap his friend on the back, mandibles quivering as a dead giveaway of his sharp, witty cynicism, "Have no fear: this gang is only really here for the drinks and decor. I think Wrex and Grunt forgot all about you once their stomachs started grumbling. And me, personally? I only really wanted to see if you were dead or not. No Shepard without Vakarian, remember?"_

_"Afraid I'd live long enough to beat your record?" Shepard retorted, giving the turian a knowing grin. He knew what he meant._

_"We both know you never could," Garrus returned in kind, the two of them never willing to let the other one up them, "But if that's what motivated you to stay alive, I'm sure Tali understands. I can be quite...unbelievable."_

_"That's one word for it," Tali muttered, just audible enough for Shepard to hear her and laugh._

_After a moment of composing himself, he sighed, finding his eyes scanning the group of people that were assembled around him, his mind processing what he saw and quickly reaching a decision on what to do next. It was largely an improvized stunt: he hadn't really planned for it, but it had felt right in that moment. So when his mind was made up, he hadn't really questioned it or hesitated any further, he just did it, "Well, if you're all here...I'd like to say a few words."_

_"Oh no," Garrus jokingly called out in mock alarm, "Another speech. You should be writing a memoir at this point."_

_"Shut it, dino," he snapped mirthfully, waving off the turian dismissively. If anyone else had uttered that racial slur in Garrus' direction, they'd probably end up disemboweled on the floor. But between him and Shepard, the vulgar curse word was nothing more than a trivialized banter term that they threw at each other casually, rather than something to be taken offense to. That's just the kind of relationship they had._

_Shepard's proclomation of wanting to give a speech had spread through the room quickly, and it wasn't long before the crew had parted to allow him to approach the front of the room. Tali joined the rest of the crew as they gathered around the dining area to listen. She took a seat next to Miranda, the two of them exchanging polite nods in greeting. Tali and Miranda weren't exactly friends, but they did have a begrudging amount of respect for the other, and the things both of them had been through together had solidified a bond between them: the same bond the entire crew felt. They could depend on each other, and that was enough._

_Even as he arrived at the front of the large group, he could see the team he had assembled in all its glory...in all its unfathomable, ludicrous, improbable glory. What had started as a small crew with a six-man squad had grown into a small army. People who despised each other became allies, and some even became friends. His girlfriend was a quarian. His best friend was a turian. He had a krogan for a battle brother. The most efficient company of heroes that had ever been assembled sat in this room, waiting on him, and only him. The same team that had saved the galaxy from the greatest threat it ever has, and ever will, see. They were an unlikely band of brothers and sisters. An impossible combination._

_Yet here they sat._

_They had no more obstacles to surmount: triumph was theirs, and with it came the spoils._

_For Shepard, there existed only one obstacle left: what came next._

_"I know what you're all thinking," he began, ignoring the ache of his right leg as he placed a modicum of weight upon it to keep himself standing, standing alone amongst probably the most diverse task force in galactic history, "Another one of my damn speeches. What inspiring words do I have for you this time...well, in truth, none. For the first time, I'm giving a speech that isn't a prelude to battle, or inspiring you to follow me into another suicide mission. That's all over. As some of you know, I'm no longer a commander: I've retired from the Alliance military altogether. Soon, I won't even be a spectre. For me, this is real. For you...well, we've been through a lot together. This speech is for you, not for me. Not for anyone else. This speech is...special, because it may very well be my last."_

_As much as they joked and laughed about his speech trope, the room was dead silent but for the sound of breathing. All eyes were on him, concentrating on the words, noting the solemnity in their meaning, knowing he meant it. This speech was quite possibly the most important of all: it was the end of an era. The end of a journey. It was a goodbye. Nobody dared interrupt._

_Unperturbed, Shepard continued, "Alll those years ago, when I first joined the Corps, I could never have possibly known I'd be standing in this very spot. I was ready to give my whole life for the marines. I had aspirations of what my career would look like, that I'd follow in my father's footsteps. Even after Elysium and Torfan, I thought I was doing my duty. Becoming an N7 wasn't planned, but it wasn't unwelcome. But then Saren attacked Eden Prime...and my life just got turned upside down, thrown around and taken for a ride. Some of you served with me during the Eden Prime War...hunting down Saren. Most were late to the party...but important parts of the puzzle, nonetheless."_

_He took a second to gauge the tone of the room, and took note of the nods and the respectful glances he received from his former subordinates, "We've come a long way in just three years, and achieved so much. Each and everyone of us has had allegiances shift, our lives changed. Tali was just another pilgrim...now she's an admiral. Garrus was just a C-Sec officer...now he's a military advisor to the Primarch. Jack was a convict, constantly watching her back...now she's a teacher at one of the most gifted academies in the galaxy. Each and everyone of us has changed for the better...but that's only because of the bond that holds us together. As a team. To some extent, as a family. We've been through some shit, and we've had our fair share of darkest hours, but we've pulled through. Some of us...didn't make it, but we honor their sacrifice by not only remembering them, but standing here...breathing. Talking about them."_

_Kaidan. Mordin. Thane. Legion. Mum. Anderson. I'll never forget them. None of us should. They died so the rest of us could live._

_A sting lanced up his injured leg, and he winced momentarily from the abruptness of it. Tali no doubt saw this, but upon seeing the look on his face, she made no move to get up and help. She had come to learn that sudden pangs of aching pain would crop up every now and then as a result of his indelible injury, and that it would pass. So long as he didn't have any further episodes, like the one two weeks ago, then he'd be fine...mostly. Biting through the ache, which eventually evaporated as it always did, he continued in spite of it, "During the charge to the Beam...I went up there fully expecting to die. Its hard to admit to myself, and it was hard at the time for me to come to terms with, but that's how I felt. I couldn't expect others to give their lives, and not give a little in return. My survival was fortunate, and I can't tell you how grateful I am to be here. To find out that you guys dropped everything for months just to wait on me...it means a lot."_

_This time, somebody did speak, Joker saluting him, "You're_ _**our** _ _commander. I know I certainly wasn't moving an inch until I knew you were okay."_

_The crew responded with murmurs of agreement, and Shepard found himself smiling warmly at the display. A family indeed, "We've all been through so much together...I felt this speech was necessary to express that to you all. I...I've made my decision on where I wish to go next. In fact, I made a promise before the war ended that I would. And now...I think the time has come to fulfill that promise."_

_Garrus simply nodded, standing up as he acted as the entire crew's spokesperson, echoing their thoughts, "I think I speak for everyone here when I say we understand, Shepard. Nothing lasts forever...but spirits, has it been an honor. As we turians like to say, 'never has there been a greater pleasure than to serve alongside those who are worthy of such praise.' The war is over, so nobody here is blaming you for taking advantage of that, least of all me."_

_Jacob joined Garrus in standing up, holding up a glass of beer he had with him, "I'll drink to that!"_

_The entire crew followed the example set by the two men, and stood up, clapping and cheering as Shepard moved to join them, a wide smile gracing his lips as they surrounded him, varying areas of affection ranging from hugs to pats on the back being deployed upon his person. Throughout it all, his eyes looking past the crowd, he could see Tali standing, her eyes narrowed into slits, hands clasped infront of her as she watched him._

_She was smiling._

_A few hours passed as the group both celebrated Shepard's release from hospital, and the end of the war. Drinks were shared, food devoured, stories exchanged. They laughed, cried and yelled the day away, entire bulk loads of stress released into the air as the team of warriors finally allowed themselves the respite of letting their guard down. No more enemies awaited them. No threats imminently awaiting to kill them. Peace reigned._

_Eventually, however, the time came for them to go their separate ways. There were jobs that needed doing, lives people needed to return to. By the end, all that was left was Garrus, Kasumi, Shepard, Tali and Liara. Garrus had offered to ferry Shepard and Tali back to Rannoch on the Normandy, which he had since taken command of ever since Shepard made him a spectre and the ship had transferred from an Alliance commission to the Citadel Council's authority. Shepard had initially turned him down, but the turian's insistence, along with Tali wanting to see the ship for potentially one last time, had convinced him otherwise._

_Before the four of them (Kasumi would be largely hanging out on the Normandy for now on, her reasons being 'she had nothing else better to do'. But Shepard and Tali both knew it was really because Garrus would be there) could board the shuttle that would take them to the Normandy however, Liara had run up to Shepard, carrying with her a small gift in her hands, covered in plain, red wrapping paper._

_Liara was quick to explain as she handed him the present, watching as he tore it off piecemeal, "I've already given the crew their own copies of it, and I thought you and Tali would like one to hang in in your new home. You did say you wanted one ever since it was taken."_

_He gazed upon the photo with a wistful smile, finding the faces of the entire crew staring back at him. It was the photo they had taken at the party on the Citadel, during their shore leave prior to the assault on the Illusive Man's headquarters. He handed it to Tali, who scrutinized it happily as he walked forward and wrapped his arms around the asari, hugging her. She returned the embrace not long afterwards, holding him firmly, "Its great, Liara. Thank you."_

_"Its...just a momento," the asari justified, the two pulling away from the hug, allowing Shepard to see some of the tears Liara had tried to hide from him as she wiped them away, sniffing, "To remember us all by. We might not see each other again for a while."_

_"We'll stay in touch, don't worry," Tali promised, stepping past Shepard to give Liara a hug of her own._

_"I know," she replied, wiping away even more tears as she laughed nervously, shaking her head, "I'll miss you both. Stay safe out there."_

_"You too. Don't let your life as the Shadow Broker take over," Shepard chided a little, "Live a little, now that you've got the chance. Consider that my final order to you."_

_"That's a promise I can keep," the asari swore, snapping him a salute. He returned it in kind, and the asari held the gaze of both Shepard and Tali as they stepped onto the shuttle, continuing to hold it until the shuttle's doors had closed, and the kodiak steadily ascended, raising several feet off the ground before turning, and thundering off into the sky, leaving Liara's form to shrink rapidly until she could no longer be seen._

_The future awaits. He sat down with Tali, her head on his shoulder, the two looking over the photo as they were transported to the Normandy._

_For the first time in a while...he felt nothing but excitement._

* * *

_CSS Normandy SR-2, in orbit over Rannoch - May 31, 2187 - Three days later_.

_His new home awaited._

_Despite inertia dampening systems that were in place onboard all 22nd century spacefaring vessels, one could still sense the sensation of a ship blueshifting out of FTL speeds. It was noticeable too, with the blue vortex that enveloped the ship when it moved at those speeds dissipating slightly before completely vanishing as the engines initiated massive deceleration. It was this very sensation that informed Shepard they had arrived._

_"You ready?" he asked, pulling the zipper across on his duffel bag with an onomatopoeic zip. Standing up, he double checked his shirt to ensure he hadn't missed anything: he had put his jacket away, knowing he wouldn't need it on a planet like Rannnoch...or at least not the part they would be visiting._

_Tali was in the process of finishing the task in question, placing numerous items of value to her in her own bag, her small hands meticulously searching through it in a triple-check motion that mirrored his own. She was crouched infront of their bed, her head lowered and peering into the bag that she had chosen to store her many items of personal worth, "Almost. Just give me a second."_

_He took one final look around his room:_ _**their** _ _room. The cabin had been the result of the ship's former owner being overly indulgent and impressive to the point of pretension. A giant fish tank along the wall, two levels, a shower cubicle, a large double bed, and its own deck...it was a bit much, but Shepard had taken it with stride. He had been surprised that the Alliance hadn't removed it in their retrofit, as it didn't fit regulations, but for whatever reason, they chose to keep it, and he hadn't complained: in truth, he had grown to like it. And for reasons obvious, Tali had as well. Probably had a lot to do with the decontamination unit Shepard had installed after the Collector Base to make removing her suit safer._

_This room had been Shepard's home for just over a year now. He hadn't been in it for very long, but it felt like home...the closest thing to a home, anyway. Now he would be leaving it behind, trading it for a new place to rest his feet. A proper, terrestrial footing._

_The cabin had been stripped bare, removed of anything and everything that was his and Tali's. Her small desk on the lower level, closest to the bed, had been emptied, and all his ship models had been carefully stored in crates and taken to the shuttle on Deck 5. There was nothing left in this room to remember them by except for the decon unit, which Shepard didn't really see the need to remove: while Garrus had expressed interest in claiming the room, Shepard didn't really expect it to be inhabited for a while._

_"Done," Tali announced, standing up as she hefted up her bag, walking up the steps to him and holding out her hand for him to grab. He took it gladly, and the two gave the cabin one final glance before leaving, listening to the door closing and beginning its decon cycle as they summoned the elevator._

_So many changes were coming. Step one was complete. Step two was finished. Step three was on the planet below._

_When the twice arrived in the shuttle bay, Garrus and Kasumi were already waiting for them: the shuttle was prepped and ready to go, with the Normandy's new shuttle pilot, a former female turian Blue Suns gunship operator by the name of Brucdia Adarinus, waiting beside it. With Cortez remaining with the Alliance, Garrus had been forced to find a new pilot to operate their shuttles: luckily enough for him, Zaeed, now in charge of the Blue Suns again, had plenty of pilots to spare, and Brucdia, eager to leave behind her life as a mercenary, wasted no time in volunteering. She didn't talk much, but she was good at her job, and that's all that really mattered when it came down to it._

_The quartet quickly said their goodbyes. While Tali and Kasumi hugged, chatting away about all the things they were going to miss, Shepard and Garrus offered their own salutations, the two men engaging in a brotherly embrace as they realized the significance of the moment. There had been few times such as these where they had truly parted ways for any length of time, and those few that did happen had been difficult to accept. Even now, neither of them were truly prepared for it._

_After a moment, the two parted, patting each other's shoulders appreciatively, "Thank you for doing this, Garrus. These last three days on the Normandy have been great."_

_"She'll always be_ _**your** _ _ship," Garrus expressed emphatically, clenching his de facto brother's arm tightly and with firmness, "I'm just holding onto her while you're gone. You know I could never be your replacement, no matter how determined you seem to be to make me just that."_

_"I don't want you to be my replacement. Or a replacement for anyone," Shepard expatiated, "I want you to realize your potential as a leader, and seize it. You may look upon your losses on Omega as a failure, but nobody can control betrayal: its not your personal responsibility. I've lost men under my command too...that doesn't make you any less of a good leader. Some lose men because they're terrible leaders...others lose them because they're not perfect. You're not, Garrus, but you have potential. The Normandy is yours now. I won't be coming back. That doesn't make you my replacement...that makes you my successor. That's an important distinction."_

_The turian only sighed, but didn't put up any further argument, probably having seen the firm, determined look in Shepard's eyes and figuring out it would be a futile effort to try and dissuade him. With that in mind, Shepard smiled, deciding now would be a good time to deliver his next bombshell, "I'm sure you're already aware that I haven't told the Council about my resignation?"_

_Garrus nodded, "You left me, Ashley and the rest of OPSCOM clear instructions to let the Council find out on their own. Let me guess, don't want to give them a chance to reconsider?"_

_"Not until its too late, which it very much is," he confirmed, "Those clowns can handle their own problems. I'm done cleaning up after them."_

_"And nobody will hold that against you," Garrus promised, the two having begun to slowly walk towards the shuttle until they had joined Tali and Kasumi right next to it. The newly minted spectre turned to Shepard, his mandibles still and resting against the sides of his face, evidence of Garrus' seriousness, "Least of all any of us."_

_"I'll stay in touch," Shepard vowed, before reaching forward for one last hug. Pulling back, he grinned, punching the turian lightly in the harm, "Just so long as you remember to keep your vanity check and don't constantly call me just so you can boast about your latest criminal takedown."_

_That had Garrus chuckling, "It'll be difficult, but I'll try and find some restraint."_

_A few more goodbyes were exchanged between Tali and Garrus, Shepard and Kasumi, before the two picked up their bags, linked hands once another and stepped onto the shuttle. While they chatted, Brucdia had headed into the shuttle and begun pre-flight checks. By the time the couple finally stepped onboard, they were ready for departure. Placing their bags next to each other on the seats behind them, they used their free hands to grab onto the support rungs hanging fromn the ceiling and turned to face Garrus and Kasumi, who now stood beside each other, watching them leave. Kasumi waved, while Garrus gave Shepard a nod. It was one that was quickly reciprocated._

_Then the hatch closed, and the human and quarian passengers braced themselves as the vehicle lurched, turned and shot out of the shuttle bay, leaving the Normandy well behind it. The two could only watch on with some sadness as the ship they had called their home, the vessel that had pulled them through some of the worst and best moments of their lives, began to shrink away as their vehicle gained speed, rapidly descending into Rannoch's atmosphere. It was a big moment for both of them: a step forward and into the unknown._

_But one thing became set in his mind as the Normandy disappeared from view, the red hot flames of reentry caking the hull of their kodiak. While it was sad that they were leaving the Normandy and their past lives behind, he resolved to never go back. To never allow himself to return to what he knew to be a slippery slope. He had a promise to keep...not just for a house, but for life. Tali wanted more time, and he was going to make sure they both got it. No one...not the Council, not his own wistful nostalgia and sentimentality, or even the galaxy's own stupidity would bring him back to the fold. Not one thing would compromise that objective. Not a single one._

_Nothing._

* * *

_Shepard Residence, Rannoch - January 22, 2188 - Present day_.

"You ready?"

Shepard patiently waited on the front porch as Tali finalized the process of locking down the house, the quarian standing with her back turned to him, facing the door, as she deftly worked on her omni-tool to interface with their home's security systems and organize a lockdown. Anyone could lock a door, as such capabilities were intentionally made as omnipotently available as possible for the average user, but if you really wanted the house to be burglar/intruder proof...well, that's why he had left Tali to perform that task. Urz rested at his heels, the varren having quickly decided that whatever journey his two owners would be going on was one where he'd tag along. Neither him or Tali had the heart to say no, nor any reason to do so.

Strewn across the stairs leading down from the porch were several bags including items that Shepard and Tali absolutely needed: the rest had been left inside, as they weren't necessary to bring with them, especially on such a short trip. Despite this relatively small assortment of amenities that lay around them, Shepard couldn't help but recall the other time this had happened: when the two had moved out of their cabin on the  _Normandy_ , and transported it to their temporary residence in El'Tivv, just prior to constructing their current house. It was striking to know that they were effectively reversing that exact process, now leaving their new home to return to their old one.

_Its only for a little bit. Go to the Citadel, give a speech, go home again. It should be simple._

But nothing was simple with the  _Normandy_ brigade.

It hadn't been too long ago that Shepard had stubbornly refused to pursue that recourse. All because he wanted to serve a promise, the same promise that had kept him anchored to Rannoch, shielded away from the mare's nests of the galaxy. He had chosen a life of solitude with his soulmate, shuttered away from the potentiality of returning to a public stage...surrendering the life he had known for a life that was full of unknowns. It was a sacrifice, but one he made gladly in the end. Now he was throwing all of that away, if only for a short moment, to save the galaxy once more.

That was an exaggeration, of course. His only duty here was to give into the Council's wishes and offer a crushing ultimatum to the Shepardist cause. Smash their resolve, reclaim the use of his image for murderous purposes, and destroy what little reputable character this Good Samaritan had left. It would be more devastating than any government raid, crackdown or reprisal. More damning than being recognized as a terrorist organization. More crippling than having your assets frozen. If the object of your religion was condemning you before an entire galaxy, then whatever legitimacy you had would be gone. Washed away.

He may not have been saving the galaxy in the conventional way that the crew of the  _Normandy_ had specialized in, but he was, more or less, still doing so. It just meant there were some extra steps, and less bullets flying. Perhaps even more importantly, and a detail that Tali was very much a fan of, a minimal, if not non-existent, chance of dying. Yes, she favoured that very much.

He had fought it. Pushed back against such ideas of intervention. He had been obtusely incapable of moving forward, accepting the inevitable, and reacting as was expected of a man of his stature. His policy of non-involvement was now over, and he had seen the error of his ways. It was just a pity that it had taken the deaths of a hundred thousand people for him to see that, not to mention that they had to die in the first place for him to get a damn grip.

_I was foolish to think the threat would resolve itself. That the Samaritan would give up and crawl back to whatever shithole he came from. That these people would simply lose their taste for this 'glory' and move on. Insanity rarely finds solutions to its own batshit crazy ideas...it just creates more problems in need of solutions. That's what I failed to realize, and now a crater exists on Khar'Shan where a city once stood. One hundred and fifty thousand people...their lives extinguished in an instant...they didn't even know they were dead until they already were. I can't bring them back, and I can't repair some of the damage the Shepardists have done, but I can at least stop them from going any further. I can take away their credibility. Assassinate what little prestige they have left._

Then, and only then, could he return home and finally begin to build something new. And get married while he's at it.

As he patted Urz on the head, Tali lowered her arm, omni-tool fizzing away as she turned to face him, reaching down to pick up her bags all in the same motion, "Its done. House is locked down, nobody is getting inside. I've even set the internal security. Intruder alarms, the lot."

He grinned, noting just how much pride Tali took in knowing that the systems of her home, the ones she helped design, were nearly impervious. Being a machinist, her prowess in the technological prowess in the field of machines, code and other technologies were unmatched among the  _Normandy_ crew. There was a reason she had been the chief engineer of the ship at one point, and his primary combat engineer of choice when going into battle. Sure, part of it had been bias, but a large part of it was practicality. Her ability to immediately to disable a geth with a tap of finger on her omni-tool, or to hack through even the most robust of enemy firewalls, was a skill that had come in handy many times through the course of their campaigns together.

She was also a prideful woman, and while she went to great lengths to remain modest and reserved about her abilities, her actions spoke louder than her words. She had treated the  _Normandy_ like her most prized possession, and gave it the loving attention, care and maintenance it deserved. Their house was no different: it was her domain as well as his, and that made it a priority. The security systems, while bought off the market and partly supplied by the geth, had been tailored to her desires and needs, and was customized for home defense. It would take a platoon of highly trained commandos to even breach the building, let alone complete any objectives without suffering high casualties due to the internal surprises Tali and Shepard had packed into the home. It was a death trap to an invader, but a place of peace and comfort to those who belonged there. And Tali prided herself knowing she had created that secure environment.

The difference between Shepard and the quarian admiral in that regard was night and day. He could barely find his way around a task manager on his laptop, whereas as Tali could design her own operating system if she had the time. It was just another of the many strengths to their relationship: whatever their partner lacked, they made up for. Tali wasn't a natural leader, whereas he was. Tali was a brilliant tech specialist, but he was hopeless at it. He was a brawler, while Tali preferred to deconstruct her enemies at a distance by whitling down their defenses. Just another of the myriad reasons he had for feeling safe around her, not to mention comfortable when she was near. Her presence was just that: a soft blanket that cast over him whenever exposure began to wear through the cracks.

"Come on, Urz," he guided, pushing off the balcony support pillar he was leaning against so that he could pick up his own bags and join Tali as she moved down the steps, "Time to go, boy."

The varren seemed to understand Shepard's words, because not long after he had stepped out onto the flat, grassy plain outside, the four-legged fishdog was walking between the two, matching their pace as they headed towards the shuttle that had been parked outside their house for little over an hour.

It had been nearly three days since Shepard learned of the Kepcedah incident, and had finally broken through his refractory facade and caved into the Council's request. Unsurprisingly, Tali had backed the decision one hundred percent, and the two had immediately begun plans to begin packing what they needed for the trip. Neither of them wanted to leave the comfort of their abode, least of all Tali (who was just now getting used to the idea of a place to call her own, especially one that wasn't small enough to fit into less than four meters of moving space), but they accepted it was for the good of the galaxy that they get involved, and that they'd be back home again soon.

With said and done, Shepard had made it his task to inform Garrus immediately of his decision. Despite his insistence on catching transport from El'Tivv to the Citadel, Garrus, elated by his change of heart, had profusely apologized and insisted upon the  _Normandy_ picking them up. He hadn't seen much reason to argue with the turian, especially over something so trivial and inconsequential, and had accepted: in just under two days, the  _Normandy_ arrived in orbit, was cleared by Rannochian traffic control, and a shuttle deployed to their house, where it had waited until the two were ready to depart. By the time the ship arrived, it was midnight across the Uma'Waz subcontinent, all four of Rannoch's moons spread out across the sky, the dark expanse awash with an endless sequence of twinkling, bright stars. The plains were quiet, having not yet readjusted to civilization gracing its surface, while the occasional distant screech could be heard as the nightlife prowled nearby. The only other sound to be heard was the roar of the ocean, its soothing cacophony being Tali's favourite thing about their home. Many a night had been spent being lulled to sleep by that soporific melody.

Just another thing they'd both envisage and cherish upon their return.

_Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say._

The shuttle sat still, waiting patiently fifty meters from the house. The scissor hatch hung wide open, the interior of the vehicle powered up and glowing from the numerous terminals and power stations that were turned on, while the engines were clearly offline, the thrusters emitting no excess heat or energy. Shepard could barely even see it, the only light coming from the house's front porch, but the shuttle wasn't close enough to be properly lit by them...all he really saw was the black silhouette of a shuttle, and the light emitted from the systems inside.

As they got closer, they heard the sounds of someone grunting, out of breath and muttering under their breath. They stopped for a second, even Urz coming to a complete stop as he looked on in confusion at his two owners. As the sounds continued, Shepard and Tali glanced at each other, her luminiscent eyes fixing with his to share their mutual befuddlement. Turning, they walked again, this time more slowly, trying to identify the source of the odd resonations.

As they got closer, the culprit responsible was quickly located. While hardly more than a phantom dancing amongst a rabble of lights, a tall, striking figure seemed to dart back and forth, arms flailing in multiple directions, as if to fend off against unseen attackers. Their eyes seemed to glow a brilliant blue for a moment, until they turned around, revealing it not to be their eyes, but somekind of glowing device fitted over the user's head, obscuring their gaze and sealing them off from the real world.

Finally, as the two reached the hatch, looking more and more puzzled by the second, Shepard could make out who the person was. He chuckled lightly, shaking his head as he turned to Tali, who looked to be lost for words, giggling under her breath as he mimicked him in putting their bags down, silently watching their shuttle pilot continue their spastic dance, constantly turning in all directions and lashing out, almost like they were trying to hit a taunting apparition that nobody else could see.

"Is that it?" the turian prodded, chuckling to herself, looking as if she was going insane with her seemingly self-directed speech, "Pathetic! I told you, their team is garbage! Couldn't hit the broadside of a barn, that lot! And one of them had the balls to tell me they were at the Battle of Benning during the war...nonsense! And did you hear the mouth on that human? Ha! He wishes he could land someone like me, the incel bastard...what's that? Oh, you're damn right I'm the Spirits-be-damned champion. I'm undefeatable!"

The pilot made a few more test punches into the air, her position suggesting she was preparing for a boxing match, "Just remember next time to cover my flank properly: we really dodged a bullet there, and I  _hate_ close calls. I might have to go soon, I'm actually supposed to be on-"

At that particular moment, almost as if Urz possessed impeccable timing, the varren barked... _loudly_.

That certainly got her attention. The turian looked like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar as she flinched so hard she almost gained altitude. Her head whipped to face the sound through the ridiculous looking contrapion on her head, and after a few seconds, she whispered, "Did you guys not hear that? You did? Since when are varren in this-?"

Suddenly, the device switched off. The hum that came with its operation died down and then disappeared altogether, taking with it the distracting blue phosphorescence that had dominated his focus. The turian exclaimed in shock as she reached up to remove it, fumbling to figure out what had gone wrong.

Still grinning, he turned to find Tali lowering her omni-tool, the tool disappearing from sight as she crossed her arms, a subtle wink sent in his direction as the two calmly, and mirthfully, awaited the turian's eventual realization that she had been caught playing games on the job.

Moments later, the turian removed the gadget from her head like a helmet, shaking her head as she frowned indignantly at the non-functional piece of machinery. She didn't much time to do so though, as her eyes immediately found Shepard and Tali staring at her, and the varren that she had thought she had conjured up in her mind, sitting across from her.

Brucdia, for her part, looked consciously aware of the act she had been caught in, "Ohhhh...hello there."

"Long time no see, Flight Lieutenant Adarinus," Shepard greeted, raising an eyebrow at the turian, "You've already met Tali, and Urz. I believe you're supposed to take us to the  _Normandy_."

Brucdia nodded, carefully placing her device on a nearby seat in the passenger compartment, before regaining her composure and snapping a salute, "Will do, sir! Forgive me, sir! I'll get the shuttle powered up right now, sir!"

"No need for the sirs and salutes, Adarinus," Shepard assured her, holding up a hand to delay any apologies on her behalf, "I'm not in the military, I'm not your superior officer, and I'm not a commander anymore. Only person you should be saluting here is Tali and Garrus."

"And I  _certainly_ won't turn down a salute," Tali stepped onto the shuttle, arms still crossed and trying her best to look annoyed. She wasn't a good actor however, and her efforts were quickly falling apart as she tried desperately to hold back from laughing.

Brucdia took the situation a bit more seriously, turning and snapping to attention, "Yes, ma'am! Apologies, Admiral Zorah!"

"Keelah, please no," Tali, having finally lost her composure, shook aside the facade she had set up and waved a hand calmingly, "Tali is just fine. I've already had one marine insist on calling me 'ma'am' all the time. Tali sounds much better."

"I know  _I_ certainly prefer it," Shepard added, a glint in his eye.

"I know  _you_ do," Tali shot back, her eyes quickly trailing up his body, head to toe, almost like she was appraising him, "I think you prefer many things about me."

"I think I'll just... _grab_ those bags for you," Brucdia hurriedly interrupting, the turian not wanting to be privy to another word of the couple's unashamedly flirtatious banter as she bent down and grabbed Tali's bags, pulling them inside the compartment before repeating the motion with Shepard's belongings. Once the two had their possessions placed inside the shuttle, Shepard waved Urz inside, despite his reluctance (varren hated flying, he had learned), and Brucdia disappeared inside the cockpit, leaving the door open.

Shepard and Tali just sat down next to each other as they felt the kodiak's systems come back to life. They were granted one final view of Rannoch's landscape before the hatch closed, the tinted window yielding little in way of a view due to the darkness consuming the continent, the hiss of a pressure seal being made as the vehicle switched to its exoatmospheric mode of operation.

Sitting side by side, with Urz resting by their legs, Shepard's right hand found Tali's left, their interlinked appendages resting just between them as her head came to land on his shoulder, "Its hard...leaving Rannoch like this."

He nodded, raising his other hand to flatten the top of her hood before he planted a kiss ontop of her veil, resting his cheek there afterwards, "I know, but like you said, its not for long. There and back...we'll be home before you know it. We'll be gone a week at most."

"Funny," she laughed softly, "Not too long ago, I was telling you the same thing."

He sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment.  _I was a fool. I forgot who I was, and I lost my way. Not again. I won't ever lose sight of what matters ever again_ , "I was being obstinate and stupid. I refused to see the obvious...and I waited too damn long to see the truth: I can't hide from this. I'm just glad you're coming with me."

"Always," she assured him, pulling her head back so her mask could lean against his forehead, their eyes locked firmly on the other's, "Wherever you go, I'll follow. You're my home now."

 _As are you to me._ He refrained from reciprocating the phrase however, given how much that mindset had lead them astray: it was that exact same belief that had resulted in the Shepardists getting this far in the first place. All he could do in response, as the shuttle lifted from the ground and finally began its ascent into orbit, was give her a peck on the vocalizer, before the two resumed their prior positions, her head on his shoulder, and his resting ontop of her head, the two remaining silent as the kodiak already began to break through the troposphere, having reached thirty-nine thousand feet above the surface in just under a minute and a half...a testament to the speeds vessels and vehicles of the 22nd century could now reach, with very little of the associated G-forces being felt by the shuttle's occupants due to the miracle of inertia dampening technology.

The rest of the ride was spent without a word being said between the three people present, although that wasn't all that long. Once the shuttle had shot through Rannoch's atmosphere entirely, which only took just under six seconds, it was an additional eight seconds before they reached the  _Normandy_ itself. Brucdia announced their arrival as she skillfully glided the vehicle into the shuttle bay, Shepard and Tali standing up and grabbing their bags just as the vehicle halted, hovered a bit, and then gently landed on the deck as lightly as a feather would. Side by side, the two waited for the hatch to open fully, where they were immediately greeted by friendly faces.

With a smile aimed towards his turian friend, he remained where he was, holding his head up high out of respect, "Permission to come aboard, Commander Vakarian?"

Garrus seemed surprised by that request, as did Kasumi, Jacob and Ashley, who had all come to serve as the welcome wagon for their two comrades when they arrived, as well as one blue-camoed geth trooper that Shepard didn't immediately recognize. Miranda, Samara, Zaeed and EDI were all present onboard the ship as well, not to mention Joker, Ken, Gabby, and other members of the crew, but they more than likely had other duties to attend to on the ship. For their part, the group gathered there continued to look at each other with small amounts of confusion, which then lead to realization as Kasumi turned back to Garrus and, from where she stood next to him, gave him a small nudge with his elbow, before whispering something in his ear.

The turian nodded, turning back to Shepard with a smirk, "You cheeky bastard. Trying to humor me?"

Shepard just shrugged, "Giving you the respect you deserve. This is your ship, you're in command. As is quarian custom," he nodded in Tali's direction, "And in some human circles, I'm obligated to ask for permission to board your ship."

Understanding shining in his eyes, Garrus simply nodded out of acknowledgement, "Welcome aboard then. Just remember that, as far as I'm concerned, we're equals here, so I won't be giving you any orders."

Shepard just snorted, stepping off the shuttle, Tali not far behind in tow. Urz shadowed them from behind, keeping close to the pair, "You won't be able to resist, Vakarian."

Garrus pretended to ponder that, mockingly scratching his left mandible, "Well, now that I think about it, Deck 3 is looking awfully dirty today, and we haven't had a good janitor since...well, Gardner never really was a good janitor to begin with. And the talons on my left foot are in need of a good manicure..."

Shepard's smile only widened, "Really? Sounds like your ship lacks discipline, Vakarian. Unclean floors? Unclipped talons? I expect better of you."

"At least I know my engine room is in good hands," Tali added, Garrus turning to face the quarian, "I made Gabby chief engineer before I left, and both her and Ken know what they're doing. So I know this big bosh'tet can't mess that up."

"Isn't there some quarian tradition about not insulting one's captain?" Garrus remarked, crossing his arms. It was obvious he had taken no offense, and everybody knew it, but once the three got going with the banter, it was hard to get them to stop, "I think you're being very rude, Tali."

"There is. But you're not my captain," Tali declared, placing her hand on Shepard's shoulder, "He is."

"My favourite quarian won't respect my authority," Garrus chuckled, "I'm doomed."

"All joking aside, skipper," Ashley spoke up, stepping up to hold her hand out to shake Shepard's hand. He returned the offer firmly, and watched as Ashley and Tali exchanged hugs. Ashley hadn't seen eye-to-eye with Tali, or any of the alien crew, at the beginning of their journey, but her distrust had quickly given way to the kind of comraderie only soldiers could form on the battlefield. Having had no choice but to trust them to have her back, they had all grown into a tight knit family, and Ash had befriended Tali the quickest out of everyone...at this point, she was basically a little sister to the marine. Breaking away, she smiled at Tali, then Shepard, "Its good to have you guys back, even if its only for a short time."

"Good to be back, Ash," he returned, shaking Jacob's hand as he silently offered it. Turning to Kasumi, he could only raise an eyebrow at the diminutive thief-turned-operative, "I guess it'd be too ironic to ask if you're keeping this guy honest?"

Kasumi just stuck her tongue out of him, "Glad to see your sense of humor hasn't aged with you, Shep. And no, I've been trying my best to convince him to start raiding banks with me, but it keeps citing moral code. I'm a thief, not a murderer! I have morals...I just like to steal things!"

He could only smile warmly at her, "Don't ever change, Kasumi."

"Ditto."

It was at that moment that Shepard finally got a moment to drink in his surroundings. This was, truly, the first time he had stepped foot on the  _Normandy_ in just over half a year. While it wouldn't really seem that long to anyone else, to Shepard it might as well have been a generation ago. This had been his command, the ship he had taken against the Collectors, the Shadow Broker, Cerberus, the Reapers, the geth...almost every foe imaginable. It had been through hell, seen more battle than most single ships in the rest of the Alliance Navy, had survived engagements where it should have most certainly been destroyed, and even went toe-to-toe with its own sister ship (the  _Deliverance_ ) and came out victorious, time and time again. Lives were forged upon this vessel, and changed forever.

It was more than a ship. It  _had_ been his home. So of course he had a vested interest in what had happened to it since he gave command over to Garrus.

So far, from what he saw of the shuttle bay, a few details had changed. The ship had changed hands twice at this point...it had started out as a Cerberus ship, then been grounded by the Alliance and refitted to bring it up to expected military regulations expected of an Alliance combat vessel, and then finally given up to the Council. During both transitions, the ship had seen significant changes. The Alliance had moved the armoury from Deck 2 to Deck 5, the conference room had been replaced with a proper war room to fit with the frigate's new status as a flagship and command-and-control vessel, a door was added between the cockpit and flight deck, Deck 3's observation windows that granted a view of the drive core were sealed off to prevent radiation leakages into the Crew Deck into the event of a power plant meltdown, the garbage disposal shute was transformed into proper living quarters, and the shuttle bay was moved around to make room for an extra shuttle, and an aircraft catapult was added on the right side to expedite shuttle launches during combat engagements and provide avenues for assisted take-off.

So far, from what Shepard had seen, Garrus hadn't changed much since the transition to Council control, with largely everything in the same place. The  _Normandy_ had been forced to leave Earth before its retrofit was completed due to the Reaper attack, and thus many areas of the ship weren't just incomplete, they were crew hazards: exposed power junctions, cabling lying everywhere, glitching doors, a non-functional, and inaccessible, secondary conference room (which was put where the original armoury had been)...the list of problems had been endless. Upon arriving at the Citadel however, Alliance crews present had quickly finished the remaining retrofits, returning the ship to full functionality. As a byproduct of that decision, not a single cable remained to be seen, although some retrofits had likely gone ahead to facilitate the few changes that Shepard had noticed upon his punctilious glances around the bay.

They were minor changes: an additional weapons locker near the elevator against the wall, less crates lining the port side, the removal of James' mini-armoury among that same area only for it to be replaced by a maintenance catwalk, and a protective side railing that lined the edge of the aircraft catapult. Aside from those differences, there was only one that really caught Shepard's eye, and its one he partly expected.

Along the bulkheads, where one would usually find the Alliance insignia, accompanied by the emblem of the ship, was now a compromise. As the ship no longer belonged to the Alliance, and thus could no longer outwardly exhibit any affiliation with it, their insignia was replaced by the Spectre logo across the frigate. However, the ship's emblem was kept, right where it had originally been. By request of Ashley, who had been given command of the ship when Shepard was placed under house arrest prior to the Reaper War, the ship had been allowed to retain the SR-1's emblem, albeit with a few changes to represent the new vessel. As a result, the emblem was immediately recognizable.

A circle with a blue rim, to represent the Alliance, and a black interior to symbolize the vastness of space. In the middle of this darkness was the  _Normandy_ , thundering upwards. At the top was 'SSV  _Normandy_ ' (although the 'SSV' part had now been replaced with 'CSS'), with 'SR-2' at the bottom. Along the left side was the ship's assigned Latin motto ('Quam Praestare Semper', meaning 'Excel, beyond and forever'), and the right side had the ship's class and the date it was commissioned ('Normandy II Class 2185'). It was a badge Shepard was proud to look at, and he was glad the Alliance hadn't forced them to remove it.

"Not much has changed," Shepard finally concluded, turning back to his turian friend, "Good. Its fine the way it is."

"You sound just like Joker, not that I disagree with the sentiment," Garrus pointed out, chuckling along with Shepard as the two remembered their favourite pilot and his dedication to the  _Normandy_. The pilot's tale of how he had stolen the ship out of drydock and tested her capabilities by evading pursuing Alliance ships just to prove he was the best choice to pilot her had seemed ludicrous, but were surprisingly based in fact. Anyone else would have been court-martialed for such an act, but it was thanks to the word of Captain Anderson and Admiral Hackett, during the day, that not only saved his neck, but got him the job. Ever since then, the  _Normandy_ had been his home, and the addition of EDI to the ship had probably only furthered that obsession. But if he had to choose any other pilot, Shepard wouldn't.

When Joker said he was the best damn pilot in the Alliance fleet, he was being modest. He was the best damn pilot in the entire galaxy, and nobody had succeeded in changing that opinion.

"I don't mean to be rude," Tali spoke up suddenly, grabbing the attention of the entire room as she stepped forward, moving towards the one person who had gone unnoticed in the meeting so far as she raised her hand to greet them, "But who are you?"

"This platform has chosen Churchill as its identifier. I believed it to be appropriate for my task, purpose, and who I represent," the geth replied. Shepard and Tali were both shocked to hear what was distinctly a female voice coming out of the geth's tonal-pitch system.

Getting over his initial surprise at the geth's feminine voice, it didn't take long for him to recognize the name. Churchill had made galactic headlines, especially on Rannoch, for being the first geth in history to be accepted into the ranks of the Spectres, and from the looks of it, was now, as far as he knew, the only 'female' geth.

"Wow, you have a..." Tali trailed off, trying to find another word to describe what she was hearing, but eventually giving up and deciding to be as blunt as possible, "...female tone?"

Churchill was implacable, eliciting the typical geth mindset of either being oblivious to Tali's attempt to not offend them, or simply not bothered by the question whatsoever, "I have analyzed organic behavioural patterns. My task, as is the task of all geth after the Reunification, is to pursue the understanding of organics. With our enhanced intelligence mainframe, we have gained abilities that were previousy barred to us, which includes emotional experimentation, figurative and literal thought patterns and gesticulations, linear philosophical disseminations and much more. Each geth platform has chosen a particular field to experiment. While we do not have to choose one unique from the rest, we prefer to, because it will assist in expediting the consumption of knowledge, and more efficiently allow us to archive such information for further use. I have chosen to examine the organic anomaly of the female gender. I hope I have not offended."

"No, not at all," Tali placated, shaking her head. After a moment to collect her thoughts, she dropped her bags, her attention now entirely taken up by the geth, "But...why us? Why do you wish to...and don't take this the wrong way... _pretend_ to be a woman?"

"I do not take offense," Churchill replied, reassuring Tali, before elaborating, "As I have said, it is to experiment. The geth's mission is to comprehend organics. I have chosen to mimick a female voice and female actions in an attempt to analyze responses to this behaviour and how it guides consequences among the collective I have chosen to associate with. Geth do not have genders, as they exist to facilitate sexual reproduction, and each gender is designed with a specific sexual function in mind: geth reproduce via reconstruction, and thus do not need genders. All geth are genderless by design. We wish to understand how it feels to be...a woman."

"Makes it all sound so clinical..." Ashley muttered under her breath.

Tali didn't seem deterred at all...in fact, she seemed fascinated by this unique example of a geth. Legion had been unique, but Churchill was a whole different league: while Legion had existed prior to the geth breaking the boundaries of their artificial intelligence, and had only gotten a brief taste before they passed away, Churchill was embracing this 'geth revolution' in all its glory, and Tali was finally beginning to see it in action. Her reaction was inevitable, "That's...amazing! Before there was peace between our peoples, your people would have found such things...illogical! Irrelevant! Pointless! Now you're embracing it...tell me, how do you account for the differences in species? Sure, females seem to have base traits across all species it seems, but culture has demonstrated that it provokes different responses based on environment, freedoms allowed, etc. Quarian women have different standards and abilities than human women or asari, for example. How do you account for all of that? Are you basing your experiences off of quarian women, or humans, turians...?"

Another thing he loved about Tali: she could talk your damn ear off. Get her started, she could probably talk for days, perhaps weeks. He had found this to be a common trait that all quarians seemed to naturally possess, as their social habits meant they liked to talk about their issues... _a lot_. However, unlike all quarians, Tali could read a dictionary to him and he'd probably still wouldn't get bored. He wouldn't comprehend a word, but she could definitely put him to sleep with that voice of-

"I should probably get you two situated before Tali begins writing a quarian constitution with Churchill," Garrus joked, addressing Shepard more so than his quarian partner, who was far too busy chatting back and forth with her new geth friend to pay attention. The sight of it was uncanny: two people who, until just over a year ago, had been sworn enemies. Tali should have been gunning down Churchill while spewing khelish curse words and venting her rage upon the machine that she blamed for the deaths of billions of her ancestors. Instead, she was engaging in peaceful conversation with it...happily, he might add. How times change, "Kasumi and I can clear out of the captain's cabin while you're here. Should give you and Tali plenty of-"

Upon hearing that, Shepard's trance was broken, the former commander turning to Garrus and holding up his hand to halt any further words leaving his mouth, "No, absolutely not. Tali and I could never do that to you."

"Never do what to you?" the engineer chipped in, having somehow heard her name being mentioned despite being enraptured in her conversation with Churchill, which had now been brought to a halt.

"Nonsense," Garrus dismissed, slapping him playfully on the shoulder, "Its just for a week. Its  _your_ cabin,  _you_ should-"

"I insist," Shepard stated firmly, unwilling to budge, "We gave up that cabin the moment I surrendered command of the ship. Its called the  _captain_ 's cabin for a reason, Garrus. Would you come to my home and expect me and Tali to give up our bedroom to you?"

"I mean, they're friends, I certainly wouldn't say no-" Tali began, but was cut off as Shepard continued.

"My point is simple: I am not going to kick you out of what is rightfully your cabin, even for a week. Just assign Tali and myself something basic. Don't feel like you need to give us special treatment."

Garrus opened his mouth to rebutt the man's comment, but closed it after a moment after he realized Shepard was right. He could tell the turian wasn't okay with the idea of just tossing his friends onto basic bunks, but at the same time, Shepard had gotten to enjoy the perks of command because he  _was_ in command. Now that Garrus was, he got to reap the benefits. Garrus must have seen that Shepard knew that, and insisted on being treated as the guest he was.

He finally nodded, "I would give you the XO quarters instead, but Miranda has moved back in there since Liara left, so all I've got is crew quarters. Sorry, Shepard."

"What are you apologizing for?" he asked, baffled by the turian's apology, "Did I not just ask for that treatment? Your ship, your rules. You shouldn't feel guilty...just consider it payback. You do remember where you used to sleep, yes?"

The turian scoffed at that, "Yes, although I'll have you know I raised no complaints. And, if I'm honest, you're doing me no favours...that bed of yours on Deck 1 is clearly designed with humans in mind...makes me almost miss my bunk in the gunnery control bay."

"Hey, don't you start laying your grievances at my feet now," he prodded, snickering lightly, "The command chain ends with you now. Buy your own damn mattress."

"I'll make it a priority call," Garrus chuckled in return, motioning for him and the others to follow him to the elevator, "Might even convince the Council to foot the bill. You think 'every spectre needs his beauty sleep' will be a good enough argument?"

"'It's a HR issue' might work better in your favor," Shepard admitted with a smirk.  _Fat chance of that happening. I remember when the Council wouldn't even equip their own damn agents. What great employers. I don't even remember getting paid...shit, why did I never bring_ _ **that**_ _up?_

"It'd be worth bringing up just to see the look on Sparatus' face, honestly," Garrus stated, waiting for the elevator arrive on Deck 5, "I never get tired of reminding him we were right and he was wrong. Its the only vindication we'll get for the whole 'Reapers don't exist' crap we got from them back in the day."

"I hope you're fucking collecting. My only wish is that I didn't get to rub it in their faces enough," Shepard threw in, shaking his head. Then his smile died a little, "But we were at a war. Wasn't the time for petty spitefulness and payback for old grudges. Neither of us needed to say it...they knew they were wrong, and that's probably the only vindication I'll get is knowing that Sparatus was contrite in the end. He was the first councilor to get the ball rolling."

"I'll respect him for that, at least," Garrus added, his tone genuine and solemn.

The elevator eventually arrived, with Garrus, Shepard and Tali stepping inside. Turning to face the shuttle bay, Shepard nodded to Ashley, Kasumi, Jacob and Churchill before the doors closed, "We'll catch up more later. Drinks over dinner?"

"Sounds like a date, skipper," Ashley grinned, nodding to him respectfully.

"I'll hold a cold one for you, Shepard," Jacob pledged.

"I am not capable of consuming culinary substances," Churchill stated a-matter-of-factly, "But I will attend nevertheless."

Kasumi just winked at Garrus, the turian nodding in return.

The door closed a second later, and the three continued to chat on their way up to Deck 3, trying their best to avoid landing upon the topic of the Samaritan, his Shepardists or anything remotely regarding the current crisis. They had enough on their plate regarding that situation already: there was no need to stir the pot.

Upon arriving at Deck 3, Garrus helped them with their bags and escorted them directly to the crew's quarters. The few crewmen who were there, most of them new due to the majority of the old Alliance crew being reassigned, were surprised to see Shepard and Tali, their surprise turning into shock as Garrus informed them the two would be bunking up here. One was lying on his bunk to the left, head propped up on a pillow and reading a datapad. Two more were sitting cross-legged, facing each other ontop of a bunk to the right, going over a bunch of notes on their omni-tool. The fourth crewman present was sat at the desk in the far right corner, furthest away from the door, typing away at his terminal. All four addressed the new arrival.

As Garrus came through, all of them rushed to their feet, assumed parade rest, and immediately saluted: this confirmed to him they were remnants of the former Alliance crew that had stayed. The one closest to him, the one that had been laying down on the bunk, was quick to shout, "Commander on deck!"

Shepard stopped for a moment, even as Garrus continued, ignoring them as he placed Shepard and Tali's bags on the empty, fourth bunk to the left. Even Tali had stopped, although it was mostly after she noticed he had stopped, his head craning left and right to glance at them. Before he could open his mouth to drill them on the fact he no longer held a commissioned rank, Garrus turned around, seemed to finally notice the saluting crewmen, and nodded to them, "At ease!"

Almost immediately, their hands lowered, their stances loosened and they returned to their bunks. Whatever chastisement Shepard had been about to deliver died in his throat, and thankfully so, otherwise he would have made a fool of himself.

_They were saluting Garrus, not me. Get with the program._

"You alright?" Tali whispered in his ear.

Seeing no reason to not tell the truth, he whispered back, "I thought they were saluting me for a second...its fine."

Finding his answer acceptable, the two continued over to their new bunk, where Garrus was waiting, "Top and bottom bunk used to belong to Ken and Gabby, but they've since set up a new place to sleep in Jack's old spot, so its going to waste just sitting here. Both top and bottom are yours, although I bet you two will only need one."

"Where is Gabby and Ken?" Tali asked, having finally noticed that she hadn't seen them yet, "Last time we met you told us they were on their honeymoon on Thessia. Have they returned yet?"

"Sure have," he replied, "Got back just eight days ago...two days after their sabbatical was supposed to end, but I didn't raise hell about it. They're down in engineering right now if you'd like to talk to them."

She turned to Shepard, patting his arm before reaching up and tapping her visor to his head, "I'll be back to unpack my things." She then took off without so much as a wayward glance.

Turning back to Shepard after Tali's departure, he patted the human's arm, "Well, I'll leave you alone to unpack. I'll be up in your... _my_...cabin if you want me."

"See you later Garrus," Shepard said to the parting turian, "I'm expecting to see you at dinner tonight to share a few cold ones."

"Wouldn't miss it," he shouted back as the door closed behind him, leaving Shepard alone with the other crew members.

Turning back to his bunk, he began to unzip his bag when he felt a familiar, sharp pain in his right side. He grunted lightly, instinctively grabbing his leg in a subconscious effort to mitigate the pain flashing there. After a moment, it dissipated, and he felt himself sigh again as he realized he would probably get a lot more of those as this trip went on.

 _Let's just hope this little trip really does end soon_ , he thought to himself,  _I don't fancy collapsing in the middle of my speech, for the whole galaxy to see._

* * *

 _J &L Apartments Room 1, The Citadel - January 26, 2188 - Four days later_.

Tali was worried about Shepard.

Ever since they had arrived on the Citadel a day ago, he had been anxious. He didn't let it show, or at least he made a conscious effort not to do so, but she saw right through the wall he had put up to shield it. Exhausting apprehension and uneasiness harassed him day and night, and he seemed unable to shake off any of it. They had only been on the Citadel for a day, and he had spent the majority of it pacing back and forth, freting about what to say and what to do. The idea of saying the wrong thing kept him awake most of the time, and he had hardly slept last night. Whether it be breakfast, lunch or dinner...it didn't matter. He had spent all three meals, and the times inbetween, preparing for the upcoming speech.

She told him it was just like any other speech: he hadn't worried about those, and he shouldn't worry about this. But he either didn't listen, or didn't agree with her, because he had resumed his now ritualistic activity of pacing, muttering and jotting down notes on his datapad. In a way, his deportment reminded her of Mordin: hyper-active, always thinking out loud, and addressing and dismissing ideas at a rapidfire pace that would probably even leave a geth feeling lost. But Mordin's behaviour was self-assured, all-knowing and touched off with a tinge of well-earned arrogance. Shepard's attitude was anything but.

On their way to the Citadel, everything had seemed fine with him. It had taken the  _Normandy_ three days to return to the capital of galactic civilization, and it had felt just like old times...just without the constant barrage of missions to complete and politicians to argue with. Tali had caught up with Gabby and Ken, and even helped out in engineering where she could: Gabby had wanted to give her the reins, but as Shepard had done with Garrus, Tali defaulted to her authority. All of the old crew had then gathered for dinner in the mess hall that night, sharing laughs, stories and the old shed tear. Even new crew members were ambushed by the gang as they dumped upon them tales of their exploits, the feats they had accomplished and the bonds they had forged together. Shepard and Zaeed played a game called 'darts', Miranda, Ashley and Kasumi ambushed her to talk about the wedding, and more. When the night was over, everyone retired to their bunks, including Shepard and Tali.

The days after that had seemed almost...routine. Tali continued to help out in engineering, Shepard sparred with Garrus, Jacob and Zaeed in the shuttle bay when he could, and when he couldn't due to his condition, he had brought a few books with him on his omni-tool to read, and even borrowed a few of Kasumi's physical books to read when he was especially bored. Despite their destination, and what was ultimately the real reason they here were, no one brought up the Shepardists or the Kepcedah incident even once. Shepard had seemed perfectly fine...almost at peace, actually.

They had arrived at the Citadel a day ago, with the Council being informed almost immediately upon their arrival. They had set up a press conference for the day after so that Shepard could have time to prepare, as well as giving the interested news networks time to allocate reporters to the event. The media was already referring to it as the 'Citadel Address'. The speech would be broadcasted galaxy-wide for everyone to see, with Shepard's words reaching the trillions of people who lived in the four corners of the Milky Way. The event would have the attentions of almost everyone, including the Samaritan and his zealots.

Perhaps that was the source of Shepard's anxiety. Not only that trillions would be listening carefully to every word that left his mouth, but that the Shepardists would also be watching. They were the target of his speech, after all. He wanted them to hear what he had to say above all others, and as such, he would need to craft every single word as articulately and succintly as possible so no doubt would remain regarding his view of them.

She knew he was worried about the upcoming harangue was going to give, but she didn't think he would be this nervous. Even now, as she sat in a chair at the corner of the living room of the hotel apartment they had rented during their stay on the Citadel, watching him basically walking in circles as his eyes remained glued to his datapad, occasionally typing or deleting words onto its surface as he arranged the script for what he generally wanted to say, she could see that his body was tense and eyes focused. He hadn't even showered yet, as could be seen from his untidy hair, unkempt beard and debilitated eyes. He had hardly slept a wink, Tali having woken up from her own slumber this morning to find him mowing through his breakfast cereal, eyes never leaving that datapad for a single second.

_I need to get through to him that everything will be alright. That he needs to have some faith in his own words. He's always known exactly what to say in the past...he's a natural speaker. All he needs is the passion...he didn't need a script when he defended me against my charge of treason. He certainly had none present when he gave us one final proclomation before taking the fight to the Reapers in London. Nor was it required when he gave, what he thought to be, his final speech in that hospital all those months ago...he didn't need it then, he doesn't need it now. So where has his confidence gone?_

She queried her mind for possible instances that could have caused this change in mindset. He was one of the strongest men she had ever met, with a will of iron and a conviction few others possessed. He was atypical, and that's what had made him so special. He seemed too good to be true, but here he was, in the flesh, a living example of the good that still existed in people...that good people could exist in a galaxy dominated by moral grey. But ever since the war had ended, it had seemed all of that was a mask...because now it was slipping. Was he the man she had fallen for? Absolutely. But now there was more to him...a type of vulnerability he had never allowed to be exposed before. A soft spot she had always known he had, but he was never comfortable with showing.

But with no more enemies to fight, people relying on him keeping it together and a galaxy to save, he had run out of reasons to keep up the facade of an invulnerable, stoic and emotionless commander who could do no wrong, succumb to no evil and lose no battle. He was a person, beneath it all, and he had needs and wants just like everybody else. She was honored to consider himself amongst his desires...a woman who he truly loved, and wished to be with, to the point of asking her to be his wife. She had believed that to be the extent of his vulnerability...but now even more cracks were appearing.

She had always known he was by no means perfect...far from it. He had made mistakes, and he owned up to them when and where he could afford to do so. He had always deeply regretted his failure to defeat Leng on the Citadel and Thessia, and had taken great joy in blowing his omni-blade through the man's chest when he got the opportunity...he had even confided in her his dark fantasies of how he would eventually kill the man. He had let Gerrel get the best of him on Rannoch, and had almost choked the admiral to death for firing upon a ship while he was still on it. He had nightmares for weeks after the Bahak incident, describing the faces of each of the three hundred thousand batarians he had 'murdered' when he destroyed the Alpha Relay. He understood why he did it...it was ruthless calculus. To save the lives of trillions...he had been forced to sacrifice the few to stop the Reapers. It didn't make it any easier, he said.

But never did she think he would falter on something like this. He was so good at diplomacy, that he had been a no brainer candidate for becoming Consul of the UGC during the war. Anyone who could successfully convince Balak, a man who hated his guts and wanted nothing more than to see his head for a trophy, to drop his grudges and work beside him, was someone who had mastered the art of the spoken word. His skills as a soldier and operative were only matched by his ability to convince his enemies to become his friends. Back during their Saren days, she had felt like she could do anything: such was the power of his motivationary speeches.

But now...he seemed helpless. Like words were failing him, and now he had no idea what to say or do. Perhaps circumstances had changed...or, even more likely, the Kepcedah Bombing was beginning to affect him just as badly as the Bahak incident had. Shepard had been directly responsible for the latter, but the former was a result of the consequences of him not getting involved when he should have. His inaction hurt more than his direct action.

All Tali could really do at the moment was watch and wait. Garrus and the others were apparently making last minute arrangements with the Council in preparation for the conference, and would come to the apartment when it was time to leave. All Shepard and Tali could do now was wait. They had breakfast, and now all that was left for them to do was mentally prepare themselves for what was ahead. For Tali, that meant sitting down and patiently waiting for what came next.

For Shepard, that meant fretting over every iota of detail in his address to the Citadel.

There had been a few times where she considered intervening and telling him to calm down. But once that idea came into her head, she realized it was probably better if she just let him come to that conclusion on his own. If Shepard thought scrutinizing every detail of his speech would help to make it the best it could possibly be, then she had no right to intervene. Yet again, perhaps it was her right as his future spouse to do just that. It was obvious he needed her reassurances, but she just didn't think it would be of any help.

_He's been going for nearly 24 hours straight. He needs to rest. To calm down. His speech is probably perfect at this point...he's just nitpicking through it, I bet. Looking for flaws that aren't there. He needs someone to wake him up._

Finally, upon his most recent lap around the room, cursing under his breath as he made to fix some mistake he had discovered, she sat up, grabbing his arm as he moved to pass by. Her three-fingered grip held on tightly, enough that he couldn't keep on walking, and had to take notice. Turning to frown at her, she ignored his frustration at being interrupted (a feeling which seemed to radiate throughout his entire body) and let her hands land upon his face, cupping his cheeks and forcing him to look at her, not the datapad that his attention had been torn from, "John, you're overthinking this. You've been pacing for just over 24 hours straight. You've hardly slept, eaten or done anything other than look at that damn pad."

He opened his mouth to rebuke what she had said, but hardly got a chance. Removing one hand from her face, she gently pried the datapad from his hand, of which he offered very little resistance, and turned around for a moment to dump it on the seat she had just been sitting on. Turning back to him, she let the hand return to where it had been, "I don't know what you're so worried about...you'll be fine, you stupid bosh'tet. You need to stop worrying and calm down. No amount of re-reading will change that. You're the most natural speaker I know, so you'll find the words you want to say...you always do."

He sighed, rubbing his forehead as he nodded, giving up his attempts to retrieve the datapad, "You're right, I just haven't been able to get this damn speech out of my head. I just want it over with so we can go home. I know that sounds childish, but its all I've had in my fucking head since we got here."

She let her mask tapped against his forehead, the most intimate and affectionate act the two could perform with her suit on, and adopted a lower voice, knowing that it would do to soothe his tense nerves, "You'll do fine. You know you will, you're just not allowing your mind to accept it yet. Now, we haven't got long before the conference...so my advice to you is go have a shower. Just relax."

He smiled a little, which warmed her heart, knowing it was the first he had allowed such an emotion since they arrived at the station, "I'd relax even more if you were to join me..."

He laughed a little, slapping his shoulder playfully in response, "You bosh'tet, you know I can't: this room isn't sterilized."

"I know," he chuckled, reaching up and leaving a kiss on her vocalizer, his hands coming to rest on her waist, "Just one more thing to look forward to when we get home."

Her smile got wider, glad to see that some of the stress had left his posture after just a few short words with him.  _Keelah, to think I questioned his love for me not too long ago...but he really does care and value my opinion. To think, no other woman in the galaxy has this kind of effect on him..._ Growing bold, she reached up and tapped his nose, whispering into his ear, "Tell you what...you finish this speech like I know you can, and I'll gladly join you in the shower when this is all done."

The look in his eyes in that moment...it made her blush, heat reaching her cheeks as she realized the look was returned in earnest, he just couldn't see it. But they both knew this room wasn't anywhere near clean enough to act on their lust, so they let their desires simmer down enough before he responded, "Its a deal. Guess I'll go and have that shower."

"And make it quick," she replied, the two parting as he moved to head for the bathroom, "Garrus and the others should be back soon!"

"Got it!" he shouted back as he disappeared around the corner, the sound of a door closing as he entered the bathroom. Tali simply picked up his datapad and used the time to read over it, finding her smile widening more and more as she read over it, the sound of running water coming from the shower easily heard through the walls.

_He's still got it. All that worry for nothing._

Shepard was only in the shower for a few minutes, returning with parts of his beard trimmed back and hair combed back. He quickly raided the fridge for a protein bar and some water before he joined Tali on the couch, where she had migrated to and had been watching another show on the vidscreen called 'Doomsday Preppers'. It was here that Tali learned that a country on Earth called the 'United North American States' allowed its citizens to own weapons of varying classification, which had been inherited from one of its predecessor states. The show, which was based primarily within the UNAS, focused on preparing for the apocalypse, and a few of the show's guest stars had returned for a 'special event' episode where they came together to ascertain how effective their shelters had been against the Reapers when they invaded.

_Keelah...one of them built an entire underground complex complete with an armoury, food stores and even a self-destruct mechanism if his compound was ever breached...and he survived for months! I guess some of them really do work..._

The two of them snuggled up on the couch and watched the show for a while, with Shepard having taken Tali's advice and barely even looked at the datapad that was now lying on the dining room table. They continued to watch the show until they heard a knock on the door, followed by Garrus' voice through the intercom. Switching off the vidscreen, the two got up from the couch and quickly approached, Shepard grabbing his jacket in the process. Tali frowned, noticing he had not picked up his datapad.

"You're not going to bring your speech?" she asked quizzically.

He shook his head, "Nah, you're right. My speeches are best when they come from my head. I don't need a teleprompter or some script. I'll wing it, like I've always done."

She smiled with pride at his decision, and once Shepard had finished putting on his jacket, N7 cap fitting over his head, the two headed for the door and opened it, green interface vanishing and the two sheets of metal sliding away to reveal Garrus, Kasumi, Ashley, EDI, Miranda and Churchill respectively, the turian fronting the head of the group as he waited.

"Good to see you too are up and ready," Garrus greeted, looking between the two of them with a deep exhale of breath. Finally, his eyes landed on Shepard, looking uncertain, "You ready? The Council's finished preparations for the event. The press is still setting up, but the Council will want to give an opening address first, so it might take a while before you're needed to give the speech."

Tali watched Shepard rub the back of his neck before giving a confirmatory nod, "No point in staying here any longer, we might as well get going. I'd rather wait there then stay here for a second longer, to be honest. I want to get this over with."

"Can't argue with that. I'm not particulary excited to watch you get descended upon by reporters either," the turian admitted. After a moment, he reached forward and grasped Shepard by the shoulders, sighing, "I'm glad you're doing this, Shepard. I know this has been rough, but we're almost there. Do this and I can handle the rest. The Samaritan will be seething after you're done burning his reputation to the ground."

"Here's hoping," Tali replied on Shepard's behalf, "I think we're all beginning to get tired of this. These Shepardists need to be stopped."

"There'll be no doubt of where you stand with them after today," Garrus reaffirmed, letting go of Shepard as he stepped back from the doorway, "Hopefully, they'll get the hint and disband. If not, then at the very least you'll leave them exposed. Either way, you'll have dealt some damage."

"How about we get this show on the road, then?" Shepard asked confidently, reaching out for Tali's hand upon instinct, which she didn't hesitate on taking the moment he offered it. The two walked out from their apartment, Tali engaging the lock once they had left. The group prepared to move with them as they stepped out into the open streets of the Shalta Ward, skycars and other assorted air vehicles shooting past up above as they joined the heavy traffic that cluttered the ward's skyline, the brilliant purple light of Widow casting down on them through the Serpent nebula the station was hidden within, "Better than standing around here waiting for the Council to come grab me."

Suddenly, Shepard stopped, and frowned. Tali, not really understanding what had caused him to cease moving so abruptly at first, his impatient confidence replaced by unforeseen irritation, looked around to find the source of the problem, and quickly found it...all around them, in fact.

C-Sec officers, at least fourteen of them and all clad in tactical gear, covered the entire circumference of the group's space, having practically sealed off the street on both ends from them. They wore aquamarine combat armor, with an assortment of rifles, shotguns and pistols wielded in their grip. Most were turians and humans, while the odd few were asari, salarians and Tali swore she even saw a krogan. At each end of the street, four C-Sec cruisers were parked side by side, acting as a improvized roadblock. Above them, three more cruisers hovered above, flashing red strobes and the words 'Citadel Security Services' lining the sides of the blue and white color scheme.

"What's with the guards?" Shepard asked hesitantly, not liking the sight. She felt him tense up, and she understood why, feeling his agitation seemingly flood into her as well, almost as if their joined hands acted as a link between their emotions.

Garrus held up his hands reassuringly, and given the fact that no one else in the group looked worried or defensive, Tali rightly assumed that there was no trouble brewing. Just like before, this seemed to pass onto Shepard, who seemed to calm down, although with a slight tinge of defensiveness remaining, bred from years of being a soldier and coming to expect danger around every corner, "Don't worry, the Council hasn't sent them to arrest you, if that's what you're thinking. You're deemed to be too important a public figure to let walk around alone, so they sent a C-Sec unit to escort you to the event."

"Wonderful," Shepard dryly remarked, "I can only guess they'll be shadowing me during my stay here?"

Garrus shrugged, "Not my choice. Council insisted on it. They're worried about Shepardists taking advantage of your presence here to stir up trouble."

"They worship him," Tali pointed out, "John is quite literally the last person they would ever attack."

"You want to question the logic of it, go ahead. Believe me, I tried," Garrus stated, shrugging, "Just be happy you won't be here for very long. At least they won't follow you back to Rannoch. The  _Normandy_ will be all the escort you need on that one."

Shepard grunted, rolling his eyes. Tali felt his frustration, and understood the reason behind it. He hadn't needed an escort the last time he was on the Citadel, and that was in the middle of a war where the enemy used brainwashed sleeper agents to destroy their enemies from within. At constant danger from indoctrinated agents everywhere he went, and yet the Council hadn't shown him the 'concern' they had for him now. In fact, with most of Shepard's former enemies now dead (Balak was gone, the Hegemony was in shambles, Cerberus was history, the Reapers were obliterated, the Shadow Broker was replaced, the geth are now allies, and Aria wouldn't even dare try to attack him now), the only threat he faced was Shepardists...and like she had pointed out, religious fanatics rarely ever tried to inflict harm on their own god.

No, there was something else to the Council's 'concern'. More than likely they wanted to keep an eye on him...or perhaps it was part of some spiteful power play in retaliation for how he had so casually shunned their order for him to return to the Citadel. Whatever it was, Shepard wasn't even remotely happy about it, but accepted it all the same, "Let's just go and get this done. I'm tired enough of this shit as it is."

 _As are we all,_ she thought to herself.

Two, unmarked skycars were the only vehicles within the C-Sec perimeter that didn't belong to their security contingent. Garrus, Shepard, Tali and Kasumi all piled into one of them, while the others got seated in the second. With C-Sec escort cars set up in the front and back of their formation, it didn't take long for them to take off, their motorcade shooting off towards the Citadel Tower, but largely avoiding the designated traffic lanes to shorten the time of their trip.

The trip to the tower was, for the most part, quite chatty. Shepard had enquired as to what Wrex and Liara were up to, as the last time they had seen them was at the housewarming party just under a month ago. Wrex was back on Tuchanka as expected, building and restructuring the new krogan military with the help of the Turian Hierarchy, while Bakara handled the politics. A new wave of elections were taking Tuchanka by storm, with the recent establishment of a proper krogan government. Wrex hoped that Primarch Victus would trust the krogan enough to help out with peacekeeping duties, even suggesting that they'll be needed to counter the yahg when they inevitably rise to the galactic scene. Given how the krogan came to the Hierarchy's aid during the war, it seemed very unlikely Victus would refuse such a request, not that he could afford to do so in the first place.

Liara had set up a new Shadow Broker base, location currently undisclosed until they could speak in person, and was slowly rebuilding her network. The brief war they had waged with the Broker in late 2185 had been little more than a brief hiccup in the Broker's operations, so that hadn't been the main issue: the Reapers and Cerberus had. The loss of her headquarters, plus the toll her field agents were taking from Reapers, had left her empire a shambles following the war, and she'd been forced to start rebuilding most of it. It was not quite the effective intelligence plexus was not what it used to be, but brick by brick, Liara was getting there. In their last conversation, she had explained the only reason she even kept the network once the Reapers were gone was to help keep the galaxy Shepard had fought for intact, hoping to stop it from falling back into old habits. She had placed special focus on Tuchanka and Rannoch, keeping in contact with Wrex in order to stop rogue krogan factions from starting a revenge war against the Council powers for the genophage, and coordinating with the Admiralty to stop any remaining anti-geth parties on Rannoch from trying to wipe out the geth again. She had her hands full on that one.

It was an impossible task, but it was one Liara had taken up with great stride. In the wrong hands, her intel could cripple economies and start pan-galactic conflicts. She intended to use it to stop those very things from happening instead. It was a noble objective.

The UGC had created an environment interspecies cooperation, but now that its main mission was complete, it no longer had a place in a post-war galaxy. Now only its ideology remained: unification. Liara and Wrex had to hope they could maintain that.

Conversation drew to a close once they reached the Citadel Tower. Due to the press basically occupying most of the Council Chambers, increasing the risk of being ambushed by the reporters the moment Shepard's face showed, they were taken to a special landing pad at the uppermost tip of the tower, which was usually used by dignitaries, political VIPs and the councilors themselves. Today, they  _were_ the VIPs, meaning they were granted special access to the necessary landing pads. Once parked, they were escorted from their vehicles by C-Sec and taken directly inside, almost rushed in fact. To Tali, it seemed like they had wanted them to get out of the open space as quickly as possible...worried about snipers, maybe?

_There are no vantage points though...the nearest buildings are miles away. Garrus and Shepard would know more about that than me, though._

She spared a brief glance at Shepard as they walked down the hall to where the Council was waiting, but all she found was an impassive expression, devoid of any overbearing emotion. He seemed collected, like he had properly taken Tali's words to heart, so she was relieved to know that at least. Him leaving the datapad behind was even further proof that he had listened to her, so she really didn't have anything to worry about.

As it turned out, they weren't actually meeting the Council, because the four councilors had already begun their address before the press conference. They were informed as such by Ambassador June Horvath, Osoba's replacement in the human embassy, a woman whose clothing looked oddly anachronistic for a 22nd century human female. She didn't get much time to focus on the odd looking human however, as they were quickly hurried to a waiting room, where they would...well, wait...until the Council was done with their opening address. Horvath and Shepard chatted for a while, apparently having met before just after the Cerberus attack on the Citadel, before the former was forced to leave. After, the room fell quiet, with the only exceptions being the acute whisperings of present crew members as they chatted amongst themselves, the sound of the Council's amplified voices, and the assault of questions by the press thrown at them, muffled by the soundproof walls.

Four C-Sec guards ringed the room, making sure to account for every possible entrance. To his credit though, Shepard seemed to have gotten over it, instead choosing to focus on her, if his five-fingered hand gently playing with her three-fingered analogue was any indication. While the two of them sat in silence, merely appreciating the presence of their significant other, Garrus and Kasumi sat beside them, talking about something or other, while Churchill and Ashley, sat just opposite them, were clearly talking about weapons. Miranda and EDI, seated next to them, were talking about fashion...Tali knew this because Miranda was making gesticulations about EDI's body shape while using herself as an example, likely a result of the AI looking for more relationship advice in regards to Joker. Tali smiled at that.

_So many of us have changed and come so far. Its truly amazing._

Shepard seemed content to not talk like the others were, and Tali was fine with that. Sometimes simply knowing the person you cared about was near, being able to feel their touch and acknowledge their presence, was more than enough. Just like before, when she could feel the anger flowing from Shepard into her seamlessly like energy through a pylon, she could feel his contentedness and clarity without even needing to ask. There was a connection between them that seemed to transcend traditional and conventional understandings of emotional and intimate bonds, one where each partner could feel and reciprocate the emotions of the other simply through a look or touch. It was why words weren't needed at this moment. She knew Shepard appreciated her because she could  _sense_ it. It was difficult to explain, but it was almost like-

A door opened, and Horvath stepped through, breaking the peaceful calm that had settled over the room as the roar of shouting voices, all out-of-sync with one another, flooded into their waiting area, shoving every last vestige of solace from the room brutally and mercilessly. She immediately turned to Shepard, "Its time, Mr. Shepard."

With a gentle exhale, followed by an inhale of breath that told her he was making one last mental preparation for what was to come, Tali watched as Shepard stood up, moving to join Horvath at the door. Before he could fully walk out however, all his squadmate's eyes on him, he turned back around, eyes locking with Tali as he held his hand out to her.

She was shocked by that, "John?"

"I want you there, with me," he asked. There was more to his question than a simple request. It was almost like he was...pleading? Again, even though they weren't connected by the arm, she could feel his need for her to be there at his side, and at that moment, there was simply no way she could refuse him.

Standing up, she moved to join him, taking his hand as offered, "Wherever you need me."

That put the smile back on his face, and together, they walked out into the obstreperous Council Chambers outside.

Tali was immediately pelted by a wave of yelling, camera flashes, dazzling lights and the warmth of a room filled with organic persons, packed together like sardines. She, of course, also recognized where they were: unlike before however, where they used to be on the other side of the pedestal, where the reporters now were, Shepard and Tali were situated on the Council's side of the chambers, and it showed. A raised set of stairs could be seen to her immediate front, which led up to the raised platform where the four Council members stood: Osoba, Sparatus, Tevos and Valern. Upon appearing, the four councilors turned to look at them, giving the barest of nods. Their faces were glum and betrayed no emotion, although she doubted they were exactly happy to see the man...especially after he had refused their initial order to return.

Shepard ignored them their looks of displeasure. He walked past their platform, and practically headed straight for the main pedestal, where he would make his speech. The platform on the other side where Shepard had become the first human spectre so many years ago had been retracted, with a sister platform on their side extending outwards in much the same manner. Tali could hardly believe that, just below where they were now walking, had been where she had fought for her life against the huskified monstrosity that  _Sovereign_ had turned Saren Arterius into. It seemed so long ago, yet so eerily recent.

Behind them, two C-Sec guards stood at attention just before the platform, likely having followed them out of the room. Shepard and Tali paid them no mind, the press now the cynosure of their attention.

Spread out before them was a sea of cameras and people, spread out as far as the eye could perceive. Not a single corner of the Council Chambers was occupied by anything other than a living, breathing person or their floating drone camera, omni-tools out and chattering amongst each other as they disseminated the information they had gathered and sent it flying out to their respective news outlets. However, all this muttering stopped and turned into a roar the moment Shepard was center stage, their focus grabbed from their omni-tools to him in a heartbeat, already shouting and practically rushing to get as much footage of him as possible.

As Tali searched the crowd with her eyes, she could immediately make out two reporters she recognized: Emily Wong was a welcome sight, currently representing the Alliance News Network. It appeared news of her death in the opening hours of the Reaper attack on Earth had been greatly exaggerated, and now she was back in the news business. Shepard admitted that Emily was one of the few, honest journalists he had ever met, and that he had donated generously to many of her crusades against crime, most notably the sweeping crime rates of the lower wards and the overworked staff at Citadel traffic control. And from what Tali remembered of their encounters, Shepard still owed her the exclusive interview he promised her.

The other reporter she recognized had a less than stellar history with her fiance. Khalisah Bint-Sinan Al-Jilani was the archetypical journalist in that she would do anything for a good story, even if it meant twisting the facts or running a smear job. She had attempted such things with Shepard early on, but it was clear he wasn't stupid enough to fall for it. The two had come to something of an understanding during the Reaper War however, and since then, they had formed something of a begrudgingly respectful relationship. Tali didn't think she'd try anything today, but one couldn't truly tell with her. Tali would keep an eye on her.

Finally, after the media reps had calmed down and the room had settled, Shepard was given a clear avenue to begin. Standing by his side, her hands clasped infront of her, she allowed her presence alone to be the support he needed, and he seemed to understand that. Stepping forward, trying to hide his limp from the audience around him, he braced against the support railing infront of him, raising his voice to be heard across the room, even as he activated the voice amplification tool on his omni-tool.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Citadel races and other citizens of the galaxy," Shepard began, voice practically echoing across the room. A few more flashes could be seen as pictures were taken, but for the most part, the room was silent, camera drones hovering silently as they videoed Shepard and broadcasted him live across the Milky Way, "You all know who I am. No introductions are needed. I won't try to mince words here: I, honestly, don't want to be here with you today. I don't want to stand here, giving you this speech. Its no longer my job to maintain public order, protect the innocent and save the galaxy. If I might be candid, my fighting days are done."

The silence was so intense, you could hear a pin drop. Nobody seemed to expect this opening to his speech, to hear that Shepard didn't care, and Tali certainly hadn't either. She gave him a side eye as she wondered where he was going with this.

He didn't disappoint, "There's a very serious reason for why I'm here. You might know it, you might not. But its the core reason why I stand before you today. Just a week ago, a crime on a a magnitude we haven't seen since the Reapers were defeated was committed against our batarian allies on Khar'Shan. A war crime that the SRA would have you believe was commited by them out of defiance, and in the name of freedom. Well, I can tell you there was nothing defiant or righteous about the Kepcedah incident. Nothing justifies the ruthless slaughter of one hundred and fifty thousand innocent civilians, and the total destruction of almost an entire city."

He went quiet for a moment, looking away from the crowd, pondering what to say next. Tali, for her part, didn't budge or make a move to comfort him. To do so would be to show weakness, and she knew he needed to look strong right now for his message to get through. So she let him play his part, and after a second of recollection, he pressed on, "But I can tell you that it isn't entirely the SRA's fault. No, there is another player in this heinous, sick and twisted game. This player has hid in the shadows since he first appeared, and has been corrupting and manipulating people to commit these crimes in his name. This is not his first offense. Before Kepcedah, which he admittedly only had peripheral involvement, there was the massacre outside of Afterlife on Omega. The attempted assassination of Dalatrass Linron on Sur'Kesh. And, I'm sure I'm not supposed to tell you this, but I will anyway...the murder of a Spectre operative on Illium."

The room was in uproar, and Tali turned her around to watch the horrified look on the Council's faces as Shepard blatantly leaked what was supposed to be classified government information casually to the press. A tidal wave of questions were thrown at Shepard all at once, most of them either asking for clarification on the Spectre incident, or who he was referring to. Shepard held his hands up to silence the room so he could speak again, and the effect it had was like the reversal of said tidal wave...absence of sound rolling across the sea like its proverbial namesake.

"The Council didn't want this fact known," Shepard admitted before them all, before justifying the intelligence leak, "They also don't want you to know why this spectre was killed. Jondam Bau was his name. He was a colleague of mine who I respected greatly, and who I had the pleasure of working with in foiling a plot by the ambassador to the hanar embassy during the war in crippling Kahje's orbital defense grid to make way for a Reaper invasion. He was my friend, and he was callously murdered by the same criminal who gave us the Omega massacre, the attempt on Linron and, now, the mass murder on Kepcedah. He was assigned to uphold galactic peace...and that's what he was doing when he was murdered. His mission was to bring this player to justice...and he died in pursuit of that goal."

The Council, despite its fury at Shepard's actions, kept quiet, likely because they wanted to see if it would actually help augment Shepard's point, "This man goes my an alias. He has no known name by which to call him, and as such, I can only assume the coward uses such an alias to find responsibility for the crimes he's committed. If you haven't heard of him by now, you will. He's known only as the Good Samaritan."

More questions were poised, but Shepard waved a hand dismissively across the room, not wanting to be interrupted, "I know you have questions, but none of them are necessary. If he's watching this, or any of his followers are watching this, and I'm sure they are, I want them to know this: I will not be your fucking demagogue. I will not stand by any longer and allow you to justify murder by slapping my name on the approval order. If there's one thing I will not tolerate, its hero worship that allows for acts such as these to go unanswered for. I have seen the full extent of what the sickness of fanaticism can do. Kai Leng, a Cerberus operative, was a fanatical human supremacist who killed aliens because it granted him sadistic pleasure. For the fellow humans among us...remember that the Nazis butchered innocent people by the millions in an industrialized bloodbath because they believed they were saving the world, just as these 'Shepardists' think they're doing now. The KKK hung and shot black people by the droves because they thought racial purity was an ideological imperative, and truly bought into the delusion that they were upholding natural selection.  _My fucking ass_. These people are insanity given a voice, and I will not remain silent any longer."

A tinge of venom could be heard in his voice, and Tali knew from this point on that Shepard was truly speaking from the heart...to the point where his speech was now turning into more of a rant than a speech, "I saved this galaxy because I truly believe in the Council's vision for a better world. Sure, we've hardly ever agreed on anything, and we've butted heads more times than we've shaken hands, but when I joined the Alliance marines, I did so out of love for my species, and the same can be said of when I accepted becoming a spectre. I would give up everything, including my life, for a better galaxy. I never asked to be a hero, I had that thrusted upon me. I never asked to be a spectre, but like all things, a true soldier can never shrug away duty, especially when his or her people need them. I've done what I had to do for the best of everybody in this room. I want everybody to know that...but more importantly, I want the Shepardists to know that."

He motioned to Tali, surprising the quarian for a moment, but otherwise she didn't budge, "This woman here, Tali'Zorah vas Normandy, has fought by my side for three long years, and I couldn't ask for a more loyal friend. Very soon, she will be my wife. I'm mentioning this because I want you, the Shepardists, to know just how truly sick I am of this bullshit. I haven't made this public knowledge, but I might as well: I'm no longer in the marines. I resigned as a spectre over half a year ago. I've been living on Rannoch for the majority of that time, in a house  _I_ helped build, because I'm ready to start a new life. I'm not a hero anymore. I plan to be very ordinary where I can help it, and I can't do that if I have fanatics following me everywhere I go and killing in my name. I thought I could ignore your actions...but it appears I no longer can. So allow me to make this  _very_ clear..."

He gripped the railing tightly, knuckles turning a bleached white in color, "If you truly value me as this 'Crusader' you keep referring to me as...if I'm really the hero you're willing to die for...then follow this order. Disband. Pack up, and go home. Cease this madness and let the galaxy rebuild. I don't need a religion following my every word and whim. I most certainly do not need you to kill people in my name. Leave me alone, and return to your own lives. And to the Good Samaritan, if you're watching this...do the right thing, and hand yourself in. You've done enough damage already. I don' know who you are, or how you know so much about me, but this needs to stop. You're not helping me. I know you think you are, but you're not. You're only making things worse. In the name of the respect you hold for me, I'm asking you to follow this wish. Disband your followers, and do the just thing. Because I will not play your little game any further. Consider this your only warning."

Straightening up, he straightened his shirt and faced the crowd one last time, hands clasped behind his back, "I'm nobody's puppet, and I'm no god. Do not treat me as such. If you think you can continue to use me as your whipping boy, think again. I'm not your Crusader, and I'm not here to hold your hand. Find somebody else to justify your crimes, or go home. Either way, I'm  _done_."

And then he was gone. He spun around faster than Tali could process, walking right past her. It didn't take long for her brain to catch up to her body's actions though, and she quickly turned to follow him. Numerous questions could be heard being shouted at him as he walked away, but he didn't turn to address any of them. He simply continued to walk out, and the C-Sec guards, true to their own duties, simply followed him and Tali without question.

Tali eyed him with a small amount of pride, and satisfaction, at his words. He had proven today that he was willing to fight to protect his future. He would no longer be a victim of circumstance, or be dragged around by escalating situations. Crisis would no longer define who he was. He had something else to fight for now, and whether or not he had to fight for it using guns or words, he  _would_ defend it. And he would not budge.

He had proven that today.

All she could think to do was beam with pride.

* * *

 _Shepardist Sanctuary, Sanctum - January 26, 2188 - During the Citadel Address_.

It was almost time. The 'Citadel Address', as the press called it, would begin soon.

The large room that the Samaritan had chosen to gather his followers in preparation to watch the livefeed of the Crusader's speech had once been a loading bay. Back before the Blue Suns had commandeered the mining facility, it had been used by the Brunfeld Minerals Company to store the several tons of ore they extracted every day to ready it for transportation offworld. Large doors, several inches thick, would open to allow heavy loader trucks to land, pick up the ore, and take it to ships awaiting in orbit for distribution. If the rumors were to be taken seriously, it was even said that, in the later stages of the company's illegal war on Garvug, Sonax Industries had reportedly seized shipments from the dying company to sell on the market so they could continue paying their exorbitantly large mercenary army. Given the late company's enormous wealth however, it was possibly just a rumor...possibly.

Nevertheless, this room had been the storage center for a company's main source of income. When they abandoned the facility, it had morphed into the beating heart of an extortion, racketeering, money laundering and piracy campaign by the Blue Suns, preying on nearby civilian shipping and, when particularly bold, corporate vessels. Their reign of terror had only been brought to an end by the Crusader and his team, emptying the facility's halls once more and leaving it thoroughly abandoned.

Now, it was occupied again. And this room, while not used for storage, was the only place in the installation large enough to fit all its current occupants, including the Samaritan himself.

Noise filtered through the tremendous chamber as every Shepardist present seemed to speak at once, mostly to each other. Members of nearly every species were present, mouths opening and closing as they expelled what seemed to be nothing more than aimless sound. It rang through his ears without an once of his meaningful context, leaving his brain to process it as junk information. As his mind refused to fixate on the individual sounds made by the individual people around him, all the Samaritan's eyes could do was sift around the room, his optics left to survey the room without an objective in mind, simply soaking in the full might of their Faith as it stood before them. Hundreds filled the room, representing the strength and numbers that their people had soared to, eclipsing the meagre drops in a bucket that had been the organization's size during Conrad's reign.

Since their takeover, many changes had been made to the storage room to accomodate for the new  _modus operandi_ of its occupiers. Two of the three landing pads had been removed and taken outside to streamline transportation, while the remaining one had been turned into a podium. A large vidscreen was fitted onto the wall behind this podium, with the three doors being welded shut and reinforced with steel fittings to turn them into ordinary walls. The crates and stray cables that had been left around were cleared out, leaving a cavernous room for them to use for congregation meetings, like the one they were having now.

The Samaritan was currently seated at his podium, hands folded in his lap and eyes searching the room. Krend stood guard behind him, his eyes also seeking context, but for altogether different reasons that weren't as trivial or aimless as his. Krend had only one purpose: to protect the Samaritan from government aggression. This was a task he was sell suited for, and in pursuit of that goal, he needed to remain vigiliant. Seeking hostile elements, even within their own organization, was a part of those duties, which he took very seriously. So much so that the Samaritan couldn't remember a time where he'd even seen the krogan armourer smile. He was a jaded warrior, through and through. A veteran of a hundred battles. The scars on his body told many tales, and perhaps the biggest scar of them all was his inability to demonstrate happiness. If that meant what it insinuated, he had no problem with Krend's less-than-cordial presentation.

The Samaritan continued his lethargic search through the crowd, and like fate, it wasn't long before he located Conrad. He stood towards the back, near the exit door, arms crossed and looking lost. His blue eyes were glazed over, the fact he was looking straight ahead at what seemed to be nothing telling the Samaritan his thoughts were elsewhere. He didn't smile, nor did he frown. He simply looked like he wasn't with them, currently engaged in a struggle for control over his own thoughts. The Samaritan found himself reminded of a recent revelation made only just under a week ago that he had shared with Conrad, and wondered if perhaps this same epiphany was what still lingered within Conrad's mind, plaguing him with uncertainty about their mission, and filling him with skeptical thoughts about their amorphous future.

He couldn't blame him, but for the Samaritan, their realization had only seemed to make his purpose more clear.

Ever since his release into the world, he had been succumbed to a fascination and obssession with the Crusader. Where he was from, where he had been and where he was going. Those that had even the most marginal assocation with him had become persons of interest, and every location that had been blessed by his presence had become points for research. His enemies became the Samaritan's enemies, and his allies became the Samaritan's allies. One by one, as pieces of the puzzle were discovered and added to the greater picture, he had felt like a baby learning what it meant to be human all over again. But now, the most recent part of the puzzle, had shown him that he had been chasing his objective from the wrong direction, with the wrong motivations, and with the wrong goal in mind.

This word...this  _name_...remained fixed in his head, taunting him with its importance and the fact he had been oblivious to its significance until the fact was staring him right in the face.

Herald. The Herald.

Such a word should have held, at least optimistically, positive overtones. They heralded in new beginnings, great tidings and positive change. They brought about jubilation, provided respite from the achings of every day monotony, and drove away melancholy before it could turn into a disease. Heralds brought light.

This Herald brought darkness. They were everything he had been fighting to destroy thus far. They resisted change. They fought back against the holy crusade, unwilling to allow the Samaritan to achieve his aims. Held the Crusader on a tight leash, keeping him oblivious of his destiny and of his grander design. They were evil incarnate. The enemy the Shepardists had been searching for to fight back against, but had never found...until now.

The Samaritan knew, deep down, he was right. This...Tali'Zorah was the Herald. But Conrad wasn't convinced. He could see it in the man's eyes...in his hesitant posture. He wasn't ready to accept the now painfully obvious, and wanted to believe the quarian wasn't what she was exposed to be. He believed in the cover, and refused to read the book. But the Good Samaritan would make him see the truth. And when the time came, the rest of the Faith would come to see it too.

For now, they were gathered here to watch the Crusader address the entire galaxy. Nobody truly knew what the address was about, only that it was in relation to the Kepcedah bombing. Nobody knew how or why the Crusader had chosen at this moment to leave the confines of his Rannochian safehouse to come to the Citadel and deliver his thoughts on the subject matter, but for the FAICRU, nobody really cared. In actuality, the Samaritan, and by extent his entire organization, had come to believe one thing.

The Crusader was finally fulfilling the first step of the prophecy. He had seen the waste the Council had allowed to spread since his retreat from galactic affairs, and now he was beginning his triumphant return through a speech. Krend had even informed the Samaritan of his belief that the speech was going to be a call-to-arms, and as would be the second step of the prophecy, the Crusader would find allies in the FAICRU, realize that he had erred in spurning them, and would come to realize that they were the only army that would answer his call to liberate all. The krogan had demonstrated incredible insightfulness, and a shrewdness that the Samaritan had found incredibly useful. He agreed with Krend's assessment.

The question is...what would the Herald do? Surely they will not stand by and allow the Crusader to call for help...they will tighten the noose...perhaps even destroy him out of spite. Dangerous as they are, it would not be surprising if the Herald would do such a thing.

The Shepardists wait patiently for their Lord, the Crusader, to give his address, glad for the opportunity to see the man they had so faithfully served in the last year in the flesh, showing his face for the first time since he vanished from the face of galactic politics. The Samaritan himself was looking forward to the pleasure, although he had seen the man a lot more recently than the rest of them, aside from Conrad. For months, they had operated on the knowledge of knowing what he wanted, but never actually encountering the man they served. Now they were about to rewarded with that very pleasure...not only that, but with a direct address to them.

_Yes...it shall be most glorious. Perhaps Conrad's visit exposed the Herald's heresy before the Crusader and allowed him to see the truth long enough to realize his predicament. He's calling out for help...and have no fear, for in the glory of your name, we shall answer it. We will not remain idle for long. Our voice will be heard, and the Council will tremble when they hear us march._

He felt a brief sting in the side of his head, but aside from gritting his teeth for a brief moment, he did little to outwardly show it. He was due for another dosage of dihydroergotamine in an hour and a half, but he knew the address wouldn't take anywhere near that long, so he hoped he could last until then. He hadn't encountered many migraines since Illium, and he was hoping to keep them to a minimum, especially during public appearances, so as to not bring up any concerns amongst his people about his health or mental state. Appearances were everything, and he needed to appear strong.

He didn't get much time to think about it, as the vidscreen, which had been turned on for a while now and switched to the ANN channel, sifting through numerous entertainment programs, had now morphed into the official ANN news coverage of the event. The Samaritan held up his hand to silence the room, and the simple event didn't take long to draw everybody's attention. Even less so once they noticed why he was drawing their focus, and solitude rushed through the chamber until not a single voice could be heard, aside from that of the reporter talking onto the screen. Her name, Emily Wong, appeared in scrolling text along the bottom, her face turned towards the camera drone she was currently speaking into.

"This is reporter Emily Wong of the Alliance News Network, bringing to you live coverage of the Citadel Address that is about to imminently take place. The Citadel Council has just wrapped up their opening speech regarding the nature of the topic and it is, if I do say so myself, quite horrific. The reports coming from Khar'Shan about the Kepcedah incident read like a tale of apocalyptic consequences. In just a few moments, Commander Shepard will be brought forward by the Council to clear the air on the situation, and hopefully add some insight as to what we can expect in the new few days regarding possible Council intervention in what looks to be a growing threat of batarian civil war. Just bare with us wh-"

A voice from off camera could be heard trying to get Wong's attention, and when they succeeded, a finger could be seen pointing to the stage where, by now, all of the Shepardists' attentions had been drawn to as they watched their ultimate leader, their Crusader of Justice, walk across the main platform to the podium. Nobody was paying Emily any mind as she hurriedly turned around, guiding her drone to zoom in and film the event: all eyes were already on the man himself.

But the Samaritan hadn't failed to notice who walked past beside him, and who now stood just behind, as he grasped the railing and began his address. The quarian simply stood there, silent, eyes resting on him, almost as if to police his every word and ensure he didn't step out of line. It made his blood boil to see her standing there, a threat he very much abhorred.  _She follows the Crusader everywhere, it seems._

Having become so focused on her presence, the Samaritan almost missed the Crusader's opening words, and turned back to him just in time to hear the rest, "-races and other citizens of the galaxy. You all know who I am. No introductions are needed. I won't try to mince words here: I, honestly, don't want to be here with you today. I don't want to sta-"

The sound of a door opening drew the Samaritan's curiosity, head turning to land on the source of the intruder. Not a single person present other than him even craned their head to see who it was, as they were too transfixed by seeing their hero on the screen that they couldn't even factor in anything else. This meant that only the Samaritan noticed when Jenna McLean, one of his lieutenants, walked through the doorway, making her way through the crowd as she entered. The Samaritan frowned at this, having found Jenna's prolonged absence got odd: whereas the other missionaries hadn't taken anywhere near as long to complete their tasks, with Conrad being the most recent to return before her, Jenna had been gone for nearly over two weeks. She had barely reported on her progress or tried to explain her long absence, and had simply gone silent until her return. Now, here she was, and she had done so without warning or advanced notice.

Trying to be as discreet as possible, Jenna finally reached the place where Conrad was standing at the back, coming to stand by his side and watching the vidscreen. She didn't even look in the Samaritan's direction, only giving Conrad the time of day as she gave him a brief kiss on the cheek. Jenna was no fan of his, so the Samaritan found very little to be surprised by in that action.

_At least she's back now. After we're done here, she can give me her report on the Earth mission. Hopefully we can expect more of our members to join us on Sanctum soon._

Diverting his cynosure back from Jenna, his eyes returned to the vidscreen, where the Crusader, oblivious to the Samaritan's distracted mind, continued unabated, "-a week ago, a crime on a magnitude we haven't seen since the Reapers were defeated was committed against our batarian allies on Khar'Shan. A war crime that the SRA would have you believe was commited by them out of defiance, and in the name of freedom. Well, I can tell you there was nothing defiant or righteous about the Kepcedah incident. Nothing justifies the ruthless slaughter of one hundred and fifty thousand innocent civilians, and the total destruction of almost an entire city."

The room remained patient, hundreds of faces expressing only calm and collected forbearance as they tensely anticipated the words they so desperately wanted to hear from their savior's mouth. Even the Samaritan found himself echoing their feelings, licking his lips hesitantly as he heard the Crusader's words, let them resonate with him, but ultimately only wanted to hear what was necessary. They knew the call to action was imminent, they just needed to wait and be tolerant of the words that must be said before they get there. This was something they needed to accept if they truly wished to be there and bear witness for when the Advocation began.

But despite all they had waited for, all they had devoted their lives to and the words they had eagerly and excitedly waited to leave his mouth...they would not find satisfaction. In fact, their excited countenances would quickly morph into frowns of confusion, horror and disgust. The Samaritan himself would go through a similar transformation, although far more muted...because he had somewhat expected what came next. He had received warning of it, whereas his followers had not. Conrad had delivered this omen to his desk, and despite his more buoyant side wanting to believe the Crusader would push through it all...it simply seemed as though his worst fears were confirmed.

The Crusader...no,  _the Herald_ , speaking using the Crusader as her conduit while she herself stayed silent, enforced his next point with acidic sincerity, brutalizing those who he directed his... _her_...hatred against, "-entirely the SRA's fault. No, there is another player in this heinous, sick and twisted game. This player has hid in the shadows since he first appeared, and has been corrupting and manipulating people to commit these crimes in his name. This is not his first offense. Before Kepcedah, which he admittedly only had peripheral involvement, there was the massacre outside of Afterlife on Omega. The attempted assassination of Dalatrass Linron on Sur'Kesh. And, I'm sure I'm not supposed to tell you this, but I will anyway...the murder of a Spectre operative on Illium."

It was inevitable. Talk spread through the room like an inferno passed from tree to tree, sparking a new blaze everytime it threw a spark in a new direction. He couldn't understand the context of every conversation, but it was clear to anybody who was aware of the situation that their talk centered around the harsh criticism aimed towards them by the man they had thought to be their champion. Despite himself, his gaze found itself locked with Jenna across the room, who was finally looking directly at him. She shook her head, not withholding any of the distaste she held for him from being physically announced to him.

The maelstrom only continued as the Crusader fanned the flames, "-also don't want you to know why this spectre was killed. Jondam Bau was his name. He was a colleague of mine who I respected greatly, and who I had the pleasure of working with in foiling a plot by the ambassador to the hanar embassy during the war in crippling Kahje's orbital defense grid to make way for a Reaper invasion. He was my friend, and he was callously murdered by the same criminal who gave us the Omega massacre, the attempt on Linron and, now, the mass murder on Kepcedah. He was assigned to uphold galactic peace...and that's what he was doing when he was murdered. His mission was to bring this player to justice...and he died in pursuit of that goal."

The Samaritan practically felt as if the Crusader was looking directly at him through the vidscreen as he said that, as if trying to look into the man's eyes from light years away, but when he looked back...all he could see was the Herald, her peripheral form hanging in the background like a shadow, watching his every move, countering his every hesitance...she was a thorn in the side of every Shepardist, and a true threat to everything they strived to protect.

The ultimate enemy. And she held the Crusader on a very tight leash.

_I don't know what she has done to you. But I swear where you shall be free of it!_

This time, the Crusader truly did address them directly, "If he's watching this, or any of his followers are watching this, and I'm sure they are, I want them to know this: I will not be your fucking demagogue. I will not stand by any longer and allow you to justify murder by slapping my name on the approval order. If there's one thing I will not tolerate, its hero worship that allows for acts such as these to go unanswered for. I have seen the full extent of what the sickness of fanaticism can do. Kai Leng, a Cerberus operative, was a fanatical human supremacist who killed aliens because it granted him sadistic pleasure. For the fellow humans among us...remember that the Nazis butchered innocent people by the millions in an industrialized bloodbath because they believed they were saving the world, just as these 'Shepardists' think they're doing now. The KKK hung and shot black people by the droves because they thought racial purity was an ideological imperative, and truly bought into the delusion that they were upholding natural selection.  _My fucking ass_. These people are insanity given a voice, and I will not remain silent any longer."

_Lies! All of it! We haven't killed a single person who didn't deserve it. Aria T'Loak is an evil woman who profits off the exploitation of the weak! Linron almost allowed us to march onto bloody defeat because she tried to betray the war effort for her own petty gain! Ka'hairal Balak was responsible for the slaughter and enslavement of thousands of innocent people! We did the galaxy a favor by having them killed! Even if Aria and Linron escaped, let it not be known that we turned a blind eye to such injustice! Their time will come, as it will for the Herald! The Crusader would never condemn us for such acts!_

Finally, after a few more moments of humiliating deconstruction and venomous discourse, the Crusader, still rippling with a fury that wasn't his own, concluded his hateful rant with a clear, ominous and concise warning, "So allow me to make this  _very_ clear...if you truly value me as this 'Crusader' you keep referring to me as...if I'm really the hero you're willing to die for...then follow this order. Disband. Pack up, and go home. Cease this madness and let the galaxy rebuild. I don't need a religion following my every word and whim. I most certainly do not need you to kill people in my name. Leave me alone, and return to your own lives. And to the Good Samaritan, if you're watching this...do the right thing, and hand yourself in. You've done enough damage already. I don' know who you are, or how you know so much about me, but this needs to stop. You're not helping me. I know you think you are, but you're not. You're only making things worse. In the name of the respect you hold for me, I'm asking you to follow this wish. Disband your followers, and do the just thing. Because I will not play your little game any further. Consider this your only warning. I'm nobody's puppet, and I'm no god. Do not treat me as such. If you think you can continue to use me as your whipping boy, think again. I'm not your Crusader, and I'm not here to hold your hand. Find somebody else to justify your crimes, or go home. Either way, I'm  _done_."

And there it was: the final nail that was harshly and violently hammered into the coffin that left the entire Shepardist congregation, and quite possibly the entire galaxy (although likely for differing reasons), breathless. Even the Samaritan could only stare in petrified shock as the Crusader walked past the Herald, who hurriedly followed behind him, his actions brought to bear before the galaxy, finally mentioned by the man he had dedicated his life to exalting...only to be ruthlessly and mercilessly cut down, his reputation defamed and given an ultimatum so damning in its intentions that it felt like he had been stabbed multiple times by his hero figure and left to bleed out.

Minutes passed before anything could be said. The shock was still too palpable to be shaken off so apathetically. Their savior's words had cut deep, and they hadn't been clean cuts either. There was just simply too much to say, with too little to refute. The Crusader's words were, admittedly, too convincing. If he hadn't known himself about the Herald's existence, he might have believed him and done as he asked: disband.

But even as the shock wore off, and he came to his senses, he realized that was just the point. It  _hadn't_ been the Crusader's words. He said them, but he was nothing but a mouthpiece. The feelings he hadn't personally felt were projected unto him by the nemesis he didn't even realize he had yet...he had been conditioned somehow, perhaps even brainwashed...to believe what this quarian wanted him to believe. The Samaritan didn't know how she accomplished it...but he did know she was behind it. And she would pay dearly for it.

"What now?" was the first shout that broke the humbled calm of the chamber, drawing all eyes, including his own, to the source. Jenna simply stood there, glaring daggers at him, her arms crossed and leaning on one hip, "The Crusader has just told us, on live recording, that he has no intention of supporting us! We're on our own!"

"Yeah!" one salarian piped up, pointing at him, "You...you said this would be...our call-to-arms! Well, its not! You lied to us! You promised us he would rise to lead us! To begin the Advocation!"

The Samaritan could do nothing to plug the hole in the dam now. The flood spilled freely, similar shouts of contumacy and justifiable anger rolling across the room like so many thunder claps. Fingers were pointed, discordant words expelled from mouths. All he could do was stare back at Jenna unyieldingly, finding a particular level of smugness in her features that suggested she enjoyed seeing Shepardist opinion of him plummet into the negative for once. Meanwhile, the hurl of insults only continued.

"Show us the truth!"

"There is no Advocation! The Crusader isn't coming!"

"The liberation has failed!"

"You've led us to damnation!"

"What the fuck am I supposed to do now!?"

_I need silence. They need to see my point-of-view. The truth that I've come to learn. It needs to be shared._

He locked eyes with Conrad who, for his part, betrayed no emotion. He didn't join the crowd in shouting, for he had expected this reaction from the Crusader, just as the Samaritan had, although he had likely hoped for a more well-leaning speech. He didn't contribute to the subversion that his partner had sown, and he didn't join the crowd's aggression either. He simply looked...done.

_That will change, I promise you._

Turning around, he faced Krend, who for his part didn't know what to do or say. He had pledged himself to protect the Samaritan, and even though the evidence pointed to him being a liar, he wasn't sure whether he should betray that oath...so, for now, he was still pledged to do as he ordered...theoretically. Now it was time for him to put that to the test, "Krend, I need this congregation silent so I can speak. Get their attention, just don't kill anyone."

The krogan thought this over for a second, but then merely nodded in obeyance: inwardly, the Samaritan felt himself holding in a massive sigh of relief, having half expected the krogan to gut him right there and then.

Krend moved forward as his leader stepped back, hand raising up to his back to grab at the handle of his insanely huge warhammer. Before the Samaritan could fully comprehend what he planned to do, the hammer came flying from his back, hurling towards the metal floor of the podium and impacting with an ear-splitting crash, the sound reverbrating throughout the chamber and silencing dissent in what felt like seconds.

Nobody dared so much as squeak as they watched the fearsome krogan warrior yank his colossal weapon from the ground with a creak of groaning metal, watching as all that was left in its place was a massive dent deep enough to place a foot into, broken, jagged pieces of steel coming loose as the hammer tore them out on its way back to the krogan's back. Stepping back, Krend let his terrifying death stare be all that was needed to keep them quiet after that display of force.

The Samaritan stepped forward next, and despite the crowd's attention being on Krend, terrified of what he might do next, he didn't let that deter him from speaking, "I know how confused, betrayed and furious you must all feel. And in truth, and I've always been truthful with you, never forget that...I've known this would be his reaction for sometime now. As did one of our most loyal followers, and your former leader, Conrad Verner."

All faces turned to face Conrad, who for his part, looked more than a little nervous being the center of attention all of a sudden. He didn't get to fret for long, for the Samaritan continued, drawing eyes back away from him, except for a few tarrying stares, "As with many of our missionaries, I sent Mr. Verner on a mission to Rannoch to bring our quarian brethren to join us here in our new community...this sanctuary of ours. However, he had a second mission, one I told him to conduct in secret. He visited the Crusader's home, to speak with the man himself. His objective was to inform our glorious savior of our existence, and to hopefully use that to convince him that victory is possible! Unfortunately, as the evidence you have seen today has shown...he failed."

He let that hang for a moment, before he began to pace again, feeling himself rejuvenated...not because of optimism, but because of a festering hatred that was burning deep inside him for their enemy, "But that is not Mr. Verner's fault. That is not  _my_ fault. That is not  _your_ fault!" he whirled, pointing at the still image of the Crusader that was still being used by the media as they talked about the aftermath of the address, "It is not the Crusader's fault. My devout followers, as of last week, I have learnt of a new threat to our organization. It is not one I wished to trouble you with, but until now, I did not truly comprehend its magnitude until I was face-to-face with it. We have become so focused on saving the galaxy...that we've lost sight of the fact that it is the  _Crusader_ who needs saving first."

This sparked new conversation amongst the congregation, but this time insults were not thrown, and shouting did not start. He had their attention...he just had to keep it. Sparing Jenna but a mere side stare, he brought up his omni-tool, accessed the vidscreen and rewinded the footage until he reached a spot where he had full view of both the Crusader...and  _her_ , "That quarian you see on the left, as the Crusader identified, is Tali'Zorah vas Normandy. She served on his team. She is to be his wife. And she is, my friends, the greatest threat we have yet to face."

"That makes no sense!" one batarian shouted, "She's just a quarian! What threat is she to us?"

"As a quarian myself, I feel I must agree, for different reasons," Nala'Seeram, leader of the quarian congregation (who had arrived roughly two days ago) added to the discussion, "Tali'Zorah is a war hero among my people. Her relationship with the Crusader has been noted as an uncompromising bond. But even as revered as she is, I fail to see what threat she could pose to him, or what this has to do with the Crusader disavowing us."

He nodded, "I understand how you might see it that way. But the connection isn't quite transparent as you might think...because Mr. Verner's report," swiping at his omni-tool once more, he brought up the report and placed it alongside the paused footage, with the incriminating sections highlighted for all to see, "shows that the sickness runs deeper than we feared. The Crusader can't accept us, nor will he, because he's being held back. Tagged and collared, as we speak. Do you really think its a coincidence he just packed up and left for Rannoch the moment the war ended? When the galaxy needed him most...he just left? This man, who has fought to save us all countless times and has demonstrated to be selfless to the point of self-damaging, just calls it quits and ignores our pleas for help? No...there is but one culprit who we can track all these occurences back to. One person who can be held directly responsible for every decision he has made since the Reapers were wiped out. Her."

Knowing he would need to elaborate, he decided a list would be appropriate, "When Mr. Verner arrived at the Crusader's home to speak with him, what was the greeting he got? Not only was he oh-so-conveniently intercepted by this quarian, but she did everything in her power...to get him to leave. Why is that? All he wanted to do was speak with him...yet Tali'Zorah absolutely refused even a single word to be exchanged between the two, and even utilized to sic her varren on him if he didn't leave. I found this very suspicious."

"If you're so convinced this quarian is the problem," an asari brought up, "Then why didn't you tell us? Seems awfully convenient you bring this up now, after you've been outed as a liar, don't you think?"

"These are valid questions," the Samaritan pointed out, "And I can see how this might seem convenient, but I assure you, all you need do is ask Mr. Verner himself about the report, and check the date the report was written, to know I didn't just write this up as damage control for when I am 'exposed.' This is real. This woman right here represents a genuine threat to the Crusader. She is the main obstacle in the Advocation...a step that must be taken if we are to ensure our glorious campaign is to take place. You do still want to save the galaxy, yes? Do you still want to see your peoples liberated from the oppression of the Council?"

Nods, both hesitant and confident, could be seen throughout the room, so he nodded along with them, "The Advocation will allow that to happen. The only thing this  _farce_ of a speech has done is expose the Herald for what she is. A temptress who has corrupted and brainwashed the Crusader, using emotions such as 'love' to bunker him down and keep him repressed. She must be stopped."

"The Herald?" Nala'Seeram asked again.

"The Herald," he repeated, "I was wrong. The Council is not our true enemy. When the Crusader rises to power, they shall become insignificant. When the war begins, billions will flock to our side by the droves...no, the Council is a mere nuisance. The Herald is the real enemy...the Crusader's true nemesis. She would corrupt our purpose and turn us against each other. She disguises herself as a friend, as a lover, as a confidant...but that's simply how she reels him in. She's been doing this for years, and she's close to victory. But only we can undo all the damage she's done. That's why we exist. We're not merely an army...we are where the Advocation begins. It is our task to act as the catalyst for a new beginning. Liberation cannot occur without him to lead us, and he cannot lead us until he's freed of his chains. She has brainwashed him into a docile servant to suit her needs...will you stand by and allow that to continue? To allow her perversions to perpetuate until its too late to stop it? Can you really stand by and allow the Herald to defeat us?"

He had them. Uncertainty replaced the air of hostility that had existed since the end of the address, and the Samaritan knew had them convinced. Of course he did...these people were smart. They knew the truth the moment he showed it to them, they just needed a bit more guidance. Turning for a brief second, he could see that Jenna wasn't at all happy with this outcome...but he had long since stopped caring for what she wanted. If she was determined to obstruct his wishes, so be it. He liked the challenge, "We must be uncompromising. We must be ruthless. The Herald thinks she's won. Thinks she's clever in utilizing our own savior to talk us into surrender. Into capitulation. Granted, its smart. But we're smarter. With her plan exposed, we can fight back. We will do it quietly. We will not disband as she wishes, but instead consolidate and counterattack. But, perhaps most important for us to all acknowledge, this is no longer a campaign on a grander scale. No, we're working smaller now. Our only mission, from this point forward, is to liberate the Crusader, no matter the cost to us. Tell me, do you personally think it will be worth it? Do you believe in the liberation?"

A few murmurs were his response. He chose to galvanize them.

"I said...DO YOU BELIEVE IN THE LIBERATION!?"

"WE DO!" they roared back, their support finally back in his side of the park.

"FOR THE GLORY OF THE CRUSADER, THE HERALD MUST DIE!" he snarled back, mighty power shifting into his lungs as he felt nothing short of newfound strength fueling him. He pounded his best into the air, watching as Krend echoed the movement with his warhammer.

"SHE MUST DIE!" they spat, "THE HERALD MUST DIE!"

"For victory, for the liberation, FOR THE GLORY OF THE CRUSADER!" he concluded.

"FOR THE GLORY OF THE CRUSADER!" their voices likely carried throughout the entire base, echoing to the point that it probably flooded out into the open air surrounding the installation as well. One hundred voices, joining a harmonic cacophony, as they radiated solidarity and unity. They would not go quietly. They would not be tricked. They could not be undone with false words.

The Herald could not destroy them so easily.

So focused was he on the success of his speech, he failed to notice the entry door closing as Jenna dragged Conrad out of the room hurriedly.

Three words filled his mind till the end of the night, surpassing even the migraine that struck him just as he got back to his cabin, surviving through the pills he swallowed to ward off the pain, and being branded into his subconscious along with all the other memories he was yet to unlock, and fathom the significance of.

Destroy the Herald.

Destroy the  _Herald_.

 _SAVE THE CRUSADER_.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**Yep, shit is moving along. That's for sure.** _

_**Chapter 12 is going to have a few more events crucial to the plot that you'll have to look forward to...one of them involves around that 'incident' Shepard keeps alluding to in his flashback scenes. Wondering what that's all about? Well, you'll find out in Chapter 12. I know I keep saying this, but I mean it now: Chapter 11 is the last of the 'really dry' chapters. The rest will, while not necessarily a rollercoaster, will be the slow climb up to one. Each chapter will be significant to the overall plot, in ways you'll just have to figure out on your own, and I'm certainly excited to start delving into the more fascinating parts of this story. Rest assured, its all coming!** _

_**I've also got an announcement regarding Flashpoint. No, its not being cancelled. In fact, its good news if you're more of a Flashpoint fan. Given the length of EQC chapters compared to Flashpoint prompts, I've decided its a tad unfair to make you wait for a whole month to get a new FPT prompt, so I've compromised: instead of one FPT prompt per EQC chapter, you'll be getting two, starting now. I've made this decision because a) Flashpoint prompts are MUCH shorter than EQC chapters, and thus take nowhere near as long to release and b) don't have an overlying plot or structure to them, and is literally just a collection of one-shots. Much simpler and faster to produce than the monsterous EQC chapters I write, like this one.** _

_**I don't think it'll reach change much, except slightly increase the wait time for each EQC chapter. But, in actuality, it actually erases that problem. By doing a FPT prompt per EQC chapter, I'd be up to roughly Chapter 23 of EQC before FPT is done...that's A LONG TIME. By doing it this way, FPT will be done within 5 EQC chapters, and allow me to move onto my new two new one-shots (now three), as well as one of my new story concepts. Exciting, huh?** _

_**So yeah...if you love FPT, Christmas just came early. You can enjoy two FPT prompts, coming fairly soon.** _

_**Anyway, until next time, Keelah Se'lai, troopers!** _

_**Music suggestions, as always:** _

**Onwards to a New Life/Arrival on Rannoch: "Jack's Dream" by Anthony Gonzalez and Susanne Sundfør from the film** _**Oblivion**_ **.**

 **Home Sweet Home: "The Normandy Reborn" by Jimmy Hinson from the game** _**Mass Effect 2** _ **(0:00 to 1:18 (back on the Normandy))** _ **.** _

**The Citadel Address: "Day One" by Hans Zimmer from the film** _**Interstellar.** _

**The Samaritan Rallies: "Cordis Die" by Jack Wall from the game** _**Call of Duty: Black Ops II**_ **.**


	13. Tumultuous Enervation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jenna discovers the truth. Shepard's moment of elation doesn't last.

" _A hero: a man or woman who is unsatisfied by his condition, and resolves to do something about it._ " - Bangambiki Habyarimana.

* * *

 _Shepardist Sanctuary, Sanctum - January 26, 2188 - Seconds after the Samaritan's speech_.

"Glory to the Crusader" sounded like the chorus to a song, or the name of the song itself. If he pictured it in his head, formulating the lyrics through the use of his imagination, he could even come up with a tune for it. He was no singer of course, and his musical ability and taste began and ended with the 20 Asari Maidens and the Loverockers. But those four words, entirely out of context, could form the basis of one hell of a song, and even he could figure that out.

But in context, one knew this was no song. Or, if it were, it would be an aberrant, stygian song...an ideological anthem to rouse the masses, and play upon their darker impulses: pleading with them to allow those impulses to run free in service to a greater, far more paramount purpose than one individual could singularly understand.

"Glory to the Crusader" echoed through his mind like a bell that never stopped ringing. Hundreds of voices, chanting and yelling the same four words almost  _ad infinitum_ , their voices molding into one, single boom that seemed to become a creature of its own. Its tone was frightening, yet compelling. It demanded blood be spilled, but no matter how grim or horrifying that prospect seemed, it seemed to convince you, without ever explaining itself, that it was right. That it was just. That  _it's_  way was the  _only_ way. The voice believed its own rhetoric, and rightfully so, for it had but one guiding influence striding behind it...feeding it, encouraging it, fattening it up...this influence bounced back regardless of the circumstance, and was so incorruptible and indomitable that it would overwhelm an obstacle that pushed back against its tide.

The Good Samaritan  _was_  this influence. And the creature he was feeding, the Shepardist union, would amputate its own limbs and serve them on a silver platter to him if he so asked. His spirit was simply that domineering, but inspiring. He had proven today, above all other days, the limits he would cross to ensure the solidarity of the Shepardist faith, and to maintain this union whatever the cost. No matter the acts he commits, no matter how far he goes to reveal the truth, he won't surrender. He won't yield or give an inch. He could walk through an ocean of blood, and still come out smiling.

The Good Samaritan created this creature. Allowed it to grow in strength and size and might. It was given missions, and it completed them. Today, it was given a new mission. One it took to gleefully and without regret. At its master's incitement, this beast celebrated its newfound goal. One moment, it wanted to hurt its master...for lying to it, for betraying its trust. But then it was offered a new delight, and its anger was forgotten as easily as the conversation a person had just a few minutes prior. Its vehemence cast aside, replaced with gratitude and resolve. The creature was thankful.

And Conrad Verner was but a mere cell that made up its body structure. A single foot soldier amidst an army.

Still, the sound of its voice carried down the corridor, almost as if it followed him as he departed the confines of its domain. As the Samaritan's exhortation consumed it, so did its own gluttony. The more it was encouraged, the more that incitement manifested in blind, rabid zeal, building in strength until there was no turning back. Its own dogma had become irrefutably corrupted, at least from a certain viewpoint, becoming an abominable concoction of animosity, self-assuredness and insuperable ego. It was quickly turning into a rampaging train that didn't care if it was running out of tracks...it would not break, even if it meant becoming derailed, just so long as destruction was the result. A destruction that the organization had convinced itself was liberation. A salvation.

The Shepardist movement was no more. The FAICRU had risen from the ashes of its demise, manducating its motives and transforming them into a militant cult. The tenants of Conrad's beliefs were nowhere to be seen. They had been scattered to the wind...stomped beneath the Samaritan's boots and grounded into dust, allowing him to embue his own constitution, one based upon waging a holy war. A conflict that would span the stars, and end only when the peoples of the galaxy bowed before their new rightful dictator. The man destined to rule them all.

Conrad had blindly followed it. They all had. He thought he saw through it, but he believed in it. The Samaritan was just so  _convincing_. He could invent a tale of him riding a unicorn, and make people believe it. He had a way with words that was mesmerizing and encapsulating...he had a way of vicariously inserting emotions into his followers that they didn't previously feel or mutually share. He had proven it. He had taken what had been peaceful congregation one day and gotten them to accept the possibility that they could be foot soldiers in a brand new war the next. And just now, he had gone from 'the man who lied' to the man who 'exposed the true threat.' There was no stopping him.

Even Conrad himself was unsure of whether or not he was real. Whether the Samaritan truly was a mouthpiece for the Crusader, or if his carefully constructed narrative was a product of some deeper insanity. He couldn't be sure. There were moments where Conrad didn't even care: he followed the Samaritan with the same unhilted devotion that he expected of his other followers, and had rolled over like a beaten puppy the moment his authority was seized from him. He went from the leader, to the missionary. Perhaps it was the trust the Samaritan placed in him that caused Conrad to reciprocate with allegiance.

The Samaritan could have banished him from the Shepardists altogether...instead, he became one of his closest confidants and lieutenants. Jenna and Conrad were arguably the most powerful people in the FAICRU, only topped by the Good Samaritan himself. They were the first to be informed of a new development the Samaritan had conjured up, as had been proven just today with the Herald revelation. When new plans were unveiled, Conrad and Jenna would be the first to know.

He trusted them. Gave them power. He saw them for who they were: true believers in the Crusader's justice and creed. If anyone could be trusted to ensure their plans saw success, it would be them. So maybe that was the source of Conrad's constancy. In all probability, that was the reason for why he hadn't questioned the man's intentions. He saw a troubled man, to be sure, but one who had done nothing but look out for the best interests of the FAICRU, and most significantly, their Crusader of Justice.

If the Samaritan told him to jump, he'd ask how high. If he told him Tali'Zorah vas Normandy was the Herald, an enemy destined to corrupt the Crusader, and who was in the process of doing so concurrently, he'd believe it. And now that he had been told the Herald needed to be vanquished...he was shockingly inclined to fulfill those wishes.

The Samaritan was an influence in and of himself. He had created the creature, the FAICRU, and given them claws, fangs and an almighty wrath. He had kept it chained up...now he was shedding them and pointing the creature in a direction. Now fully tamed and trained, it would do as the Samaritan asked: attack and kill. Follow orders.

Conrad's dilemma was simple: was he capable of that? Was the Samaritan so powerful, so truly convincing, that he could turn Conrad, a man who had never even killed anyone, into a killer? Not just a killer, but a foot soldier? For that instance, could he turn the rest of his followers into this? Was his words that potent? The Samaritan was forging an empire based around a single man, and had managed in months what should have taken years in Conrad's eyes...it was entirely possible nothing was beyond his reach. With the right amount of ambition and persuasion, a gentle pacifist could become an architect of annihilation.

The answer seemed obvious. He had already, however inadvertently, given the Samaritan the very weapon he needed to turn his fortunes around, and further his objectives. He had placed a target on the back of the Herald's head, and the FAICRU were closing in for the kill. Beforehand, the Samaritan had never directly ordered them to kill others. The deaths of Ka'hairal Balak and the people in Kepcedah were orchestrated by their SRA allies, and the attempts on Aria T'Loak and Dalatrass Linron were the products of cell leaders acting without the Samaritan's approval. And while the Samaritan was exactly levelling a kill order for the Herald, he was suggesting she was that type of threat. And despite that, he couldn't bring himself to reject this plan. In fact, he was sliding towards acceptance of it.

So, suffice to say, Conrad was enraptured. He was a die-hard loyalist of the FAICRU mission statement, and he would serve the Crusader as faithfully and loyally as he could, as he had always done. If that meant following the Samaritan's lead to the letter, then so be it. He was but a servant. Conrad was okay with the fact.

However...Jenna wasn't.

As the Samaritan's words finished mushrooming across the loading bay, the crowd taking up his call-to-arms eagerly, Conrad had felt small and trifle. Squashed between so many hot bodies and tumultuous voices, all of them reacting to their leader's stentorian rhetoric like hydrogen slamming into oxygen. His voice joined theirs at of an obligation to fit with the surrounding comprehension, finding solace in the idea of identifiying with the ideas and opinions of others. He was a sheep, to be sure, but the Shepherd was a man demanding respect and awe, and Conrad would provide it in abundance. It was almost a competition to have his voice heard above the raucous, almost to the point his throat began to feel scratchy, leathery and worn. Despite what the Crusader said for the whole galaxy to see, despite the clear demands he made for their dissolution and the utter contempt and disdain he had shown for his people, the Samaritan had rallied them once more, once again giving them hope. It was difficult for him to  _not_ get wrapped up in the moment.

But then a hand grabbed his arm, tugging harshly. He turned and remembered: Jenna had arrived back on Sanctum just moments before the Herald's venomous eloquence and spiteful locution came pouring from their savior's mouth. He was glad to see her return. She had been gone longer than the other missionaries, just over a week more than she should have been, but he didn't care. Seeing her face soothed his tense nerves almost instantly. It made him realize, truly, how weak and exploitable he was when she wasn't around. He may have led the Shepardists in an official capacity prior to the Samaritan's takeover...but Jenna had been the real leader behind the reins. Her presence lifted his spirits, allowing him to feel...a kind of security. Safety.

But, this time, there was something off. Jenna and the Samaritan had never gotten along, and she had made no attempt to disguise it. While Conrad was honoured by the Samaritan making him a lieutenant, Jenna seemed insulted by it, even telling Conrad that the position was little more than a carefully veiled attempt at 'keeping your enemes close.' However, Samaritan had oft told Conrad that he enjoyed Jenna's argumentative episodes. Not out of amusement...but because she challenged him to improve. It had once again illustrated to Conrad how much of a failure he truly was: to the point where Jenna, who actively opposed the Samaritan's plans at every step, was more effective a lieutenant to him than Conrad was. Jenna's arguments were little more than lessons to their leader, and it only seemed to embolden him further.

But Jenna didn't care. She was a fighter. While her life had fairly dull many years ago, having been little more than a waitress at the Flux club in the Wards, her brief stint as an undercover agent for C-Sec in trying to expose the Choras crime gang had allowed her to truly shine. And while the Crusader had later convinced her to find other work, she had never forgotten the opportunity that job had offered her, and she leapt on it. The waitress of yesterday, became the C-Sec cadet of tomorrow. Jenna knew the tools of the trade, and it forged her into the woman she was now. The woman who would stop at nothing to expose and destroy the Samaritan. A goal Conrad simply couldn't understand.

Jenna, of course, had quit C-Sec a month or two before the Reaper War broke out, mostly due to the sexism and speciesism of her compatriots, but the skills had stuck with her. She knew more about leadership than he ever would. And while he would never understand what she saw in him, he thanked the Crusader that he had her. If it wasn't for him, the circumstances of their meeting would never have been set, and they wouldn't have founded the Shepardist movement.

The point was that Jenna and the Samaritan were always enemies. She wasn't going to back down, and the Samaritan wouldn't force her. But despite the tension that usually existed between the two, today felt different. The look she gave him as she entered seemed almost...accusatory. Like she had been accusing him of lying, even before the crowd had done so. What did she know?

He had a feeling he would find out in due time. The moment the Samaritan's speech ended, she was tugging at his arm. He didn't know why she was in such a rush to leave, but he felt compelled to let her lead him. She pushed and shoved and guided their way through the crowd until they reached the exit, doors parting to allow the crowd's roar to run unfiltered through the rest of the sanctuary, which was now largely empty aside from the odd guard on patrol. Even though the door had long since closed behind them, sealing them off from the other Shepardists, she did not stop her trek. She couldn't, darting through indistinguishable hallway after indistinguishable hallway, until it finally dawned on him where she was taking him: their personal quarters.

Whatever she had to say, it was for  _his_ ears only.

_What is this, Jenna? What's going on?_

Their voices rang in his head. 'Glory to the Crusader' eternally resonated within him, a persistent drumbeat that seemed more like indoctrination than a chant. His lips felt urged him to begin instinctively repeating the words back, but he resisted. The feeling was like that of a parent teaching their child a word by repeating it over and over, until the child was participating in the repeitition. In this context, the Samaritan was the parent, and his children gladly repeated what he taught them. Conrad even  _felt_ like a child. Wholly ignorant of the world around him, but easily accepting of guidance. Even yearning for it.

 _Isn't that the goal of any leader? To guide others. To make them_ _**want** _ _guidance?_

Jenna seemed to have no such troubles, as her priorities were elsewhere presently.

A few more minutes passed on by before Jenna finally guided him to their quarters, towards the heart of the facility. His mind was still too caught up in the moment that had transpired minutes before that he hardly noticed as Jenna practically dragged him through the door, waiting for it to close before she finally allowed him freedom of movement, the practically iron-like grip on his arm releasing and allowing the blood to flow back into it. The door closing almost seemed to break the proverbial spell he was placed under, his trance shattered into a thousand pieces as he tried to fathom where he was.

Their modest quarters were nothing to gawk at, and was stocked with simple amenities, including most of the stuff they had brought with them from Illium, albeit with a few bits and pieces missing due to the Samaritan hurriedly rushing them offworld to escape the imminent Council commando raid. As such, they had a simple bed, small kitchen, work desk and bathroom, all of it sheltered within four, weathered but clean grey walls. It was a downgrade from their quarters on Illium, one that Conrad ultimately hadn't been satisified with. Not that his zealotry and enthusiastic devotion for the cause allowed him much time to dwell on that frustration.

Freed from the trappings of the Samaritan's words, Conrad was finally able to fully understand the nature of where he was...and who he was with. He was admittedly dense at the best and worst of times, and his obtuseness extended to many factors in life, including affection. His relationship with Jenna had been fraught with annoyance at first, mostly at Jenna's expense, and largely due to his inability to grasp when she was making advances on him. But Jenna, for some reason, had been patient with him, and thanks to that very equanimity, he had finally overcome those initial difficulties. This same imperceptiveness continued to loiter throughout their time together, but Jenna was gradually helping him to improve, and he couldn't imagine he'd have made it this far without her.

These same lessons conflated in that moment to help him overcome the period of confusion that followed his return to mental coherence. His mind was finally able to understand the significance of Jenna's presence here with him, and foreboding emotion that had filled him before was swept aside and replaced with happiness.

Jenna had been turning to speak when he lunged forward, arms outstretched and encompassed her in a hug. The warmth of her body and the feeling of her cheek pressed against his was a wholesome, remarkably liberating feeling, and any thoughts of the Samaritan, the Crusader and the larger implications of the Shepardist crisis fled from his mind as relief pounded at the gates of his mental state. That was another affect she had: the ability to offer him clarity, one his brain took gladly, to the misfortune of his other thought processes. Nothing else mattered when she was around, and he was perfectly content with that.

Whatever hesitation Jenna had at first, likely due to the surprise she felt at his sudden act of tenderness, washed away as she returned the gesture, one of her hands reaching up to caress the back of his head. Alone, the two remained quiet for a moment, soaking up the intimacy offered by their significant other. Breaking the blissful silence for but a minute, Conrad smiled goofily.

"You're back," his voice began a tender whisper. He then broke the hug, holding her at arms' length as he pulled back to look into her eyes. This time, his volume didn't hold back, "You're back!"

The serious expression the woman held when she dragged him out of the chamber...the same look of loathing she had maintained almost religiously upon their retreat from said chamber dissolved in that instant, replaced with a unrepentant smile, her beautiful green eyes almost shimmering as they seemed to change in radiance based on whatever emotion she displayed at the time. She laughed a little, the lovely sound a song that had become a favourite. Unable to help herself, she nodded, her own arms now holding his, this time far more gently, "Yes I am, Con."

"Where have you been?" he didn't mean for his tone to sound some accusatory, but the loneliness he had felt over the past week since his own return from Rannoch had left him in a dismal plight. He had few and less friends here, and the Samaritan and his krogan bodyguard were hardly good company. The Samaritan preferred to remain in solitude, his somewhat asocial and hermit-like behaviour discouraging attempts at conversation. And then Krend...well, he was a krogan for starters, and his somewhat stoic and austere presence made him even less desirable a conversationalist than the Samaritan. All that left was Jenna...who was not only hundreds of AUs away, but was rarely available to talk.

So yes, he was a little curious as to why Jenna had taken so long. The other missionaries had completed their missions within days, allowing them to return in a week at most. Conrad had an additional objective, something the others didn't receive, and  _still_ returned on time. Jenna had taken an additional week to return, and thus far didn't seem to acknowledge any problem with such a delay, especially not the effect it had on her partner.

The look in Jenna's eyes changed. A flicker of the contempt flared again, but was again replaced by the joy she held at seeing him, and then finally gave way to a more neutral, troubled countenance, one that left him feeling uneasy. She bit her lower lip, hands wringing guiltily as she seemed to realize the unauspicious nature of her late arrival. Her hands slid down to hold his hands, clenching his fingers comfortingly, "I'm sorry I took so long, Con. I was...busy.  _Very_  busy. I know I should have been home much sooner, but there was something I needed to do before I returned, and with that task now complete, I'm able to be here with you."

Her reluctance to simply spit out what had taken her so long didn't vex him as much as it should have, but it did leave him feeling more than a little suspicious. What was she hiding? So many questions demanded answers, and the floodgates didn't hold for very long as his lips opened and he continued, "What were you doing? Where were you this whole time?" he released his grip on her hands, preferring to back up and begin waving his hands around as he let what little grievances he had vent as she watched on, "Why didn't you tell me what you were doing so I didn't worry? Why did it take you so long?"

To her credit, Jenna seemed genuinely apologetic for her actions, and nodded, her serious expression beginning to slide back to the forefront as as it dawned on them both that the moment for joyous reunion was now over, and that now was the time for answers, "That's a whole bunch of questions, Con. How about I answer all of them right now: I've been doing some investigation into our sibylline prophet, and that's why it has taken me so long to return."

Conrad just frowned, even more confused than he had been before.  _Investigation? Wait...does she mean the Samaritan? Why has she been investigating him?_

"An investigation?" he voiced, "An investigation into...into the Samaritan? Why would you do that, Jen? And what exactly does an investigation do to justify over a week of silence?"

Finally, Jenna's own patience wore thin, airing her own frustration as she exploded, "Do you really think I should have just announced over an open comm link who I'm investigating and why? Really Con? Do you seriously believe the Samaritan, our ever-so-forgiving leader, would take kindly to me digging into his dirty laundry? My silence was by necessity! Its not like I didn't  _want_ to hear your voice! To talk to you, laugh with you! I did it to protect you, and to protect me. The things I've learnt..." she trailed off, sounding looking far less angry all of a sudden, and far more paranoid, eyes darting around as she sought out whatever pair of eyes she thought were watching. She raised her omni-tool, locking down the door behind them. All the while, Conrad just watched her, completely baffled by her behaviour.

_What has gotten into her? Why is she acting like this?_

Her hatred of the Samaritan wasn't a secret, for sure. But this was bordering on obsession, and Conrad didn't like it one bit.

_Like we all obsess over the Crusader? We're a cult. Obsession is the name, rule and goal of the trade._

_That's different. We obsess over the greater good. Jenna...I don't get her angle. Why is she so determined to bring the Samaritan down? Why can't she just accept him, as I have? Now she's doing this investigation...and she does it behind my back? Without telling me?_

"Things you've learnt?" Conrad repeated, trying to taste the words in his mouth, only to find they didn't suit his mindset anymore than before he said them out loud, "Jen, there's nothing to learn! Listen, the Good Samaritan has a plan to save the Cru-"

"The Samaritan isn't who he says he is!" Jenna muttered harshly, not wanting to shout but needing to get Conrad's attention. He fell silent for a moment, noting her need for silence, and matched his demeanour accordingly, as best he could. Closing her eyes, she exhaled deeply before moving closer to him, keeping her voice low and softer, audible only to him, "Con, none of this feels right. The man is... _wrong_. Every word that leaves his mouth, the lack of an actual name, the way he acts, the fact he just appeared out of nowhere...Con, you have to admit, its a little odd. You can't blame me for being skeptical when this nobody casually hijacks our movement and is now telling us some quarian we hardly know is our greatest enemy  _simply because_ the Crusader didn't say what we wanted him to. None of it adds up. I can't simply ignore that."

He just frowned at her, "The Samaritan has never led us astray. He has achieved in months what would have taken us years. He has a plan for us all. He knows a way to save the Crusader. You may not believe in him, but  _I_ do. Why can't you accept that, if not him?"

"Because I care about you, Con," Jenna declared, hand reaching up to cup his cheek, "I don't want you to fall into the same trap he's caught the rest of our people in. Whatever he says, none of it is true. He's feeding you, all of us, lies. I don't know what he has planned, but none of it is good. I cannot, and will not, allow you to willingly jump into what the Samaritan tells you is a lake, when I know for a fact it is a radioactive pool. This isn't about jealously. Yes, he took our movement from us, I'll always hate him for that. But this goes beyond grudges now. You heard what he said about Tali'Zorah...what he plans to have us do. Can you really stand by and watch him convince our people that an innocent quarian, a friend of the Crusader, deserves to die? Is that what we've become?"

Conrad just shook his head. Yes, she had a point. But it was all just speculation. The Samaritan had proven, time and time again, that he was willing to make sacrifices to preserve their ideological identity. What good leader wouldn't? Jenna's pursuit of 'truth' seemed to only be more self-destructive than helpful, and he wasn't willing to undermine his beliefs to help her in that, no matter how much it may pain him to spurn her like that, "Jen, this is lunacy. The Herald is the enemy. The Samaritan proved it. I don't see any evidence for the accusations you've just levelled at him...you say he's not who he is, but you haven't told me how or why. This needs to sto-"

"I  _have_ proof," she adamantly declared, grasping him by the shoulders, "Why do you think I took so long to return? Why I couldn't speak over open comms? I've been wanting a chance to get free of the Samaritan's grip and openly investigate his origins before now, but I've never had a chance...until he sent me to Earth. Then I got all the time I needed."

At that, Conrad was stumped. He had expected her to continue listing off theories she had of the Samaritan's true intentions or his genesis, but here she was claiming she had found proof to back those theories. Instead of offering another counter argument as he had planned, he instead found himself speechless, only finding enough words to prompt her to continue, "What...what did you find?"

Having successfully piqued his interest, Jenna moved for the killing blow, "Once I got to Earth, I contacted some of my former buddies in C-Sec on the Citadel. Some had moved on, but there were a few still there, and several of them owed me favors. One of them you might have heard of...he just happens to be the Executor for C-Sec itself...Decian Chellick."

It was a name Conrad remembered from Jenna's recounting of her past. Detective Chellick, now Executor, had been involved in a C-Sec investigation into the Choras crime gang on the Citadel, largely in regards to their black market weapons purchases that C-Sec was afraid would compromise their operations across the Citadel and put their personnel at risk by giving low profile street thugs access to state-of-the-art weaponry: a monopoly their security and tactical response units needed to maintain to remain an effective force of deterrence. It was during the opening week of the Eden Prime War, when Jenna was still a waitress at Flux. Chellick hired her as an undercover agent. The work was extremely dangerous, and aside from paying her handsomely, she never really had been appropriately paid for the high-risk work she had performed.

Apparently she was cashing in, all these years later.

Jenna wasn't one to engage in dramatic effect, so she continued, "Suffice to say, I may have...asked...for Chellick and some of these contacts to do some digging through local police reports of missing persons and wanted criminal fugitives. I also threw in political criminals to cover my bases. I didn't tell Chellick why I was interested...he would have had me arrested if I did. But I gave my contacts just enough information to narrow the search parameters...and take a guess as to what they found?"

Conrad sighed, rubbing his eyes, "Jen, seriously, if you have proof, you better just-"

"The Samaritan," she flatly announced to him, "What he is, what he's done, where he's been. I found out what he was up to  _before_ we met him on Illium. Furthermore...I've got a name."

Conrad had to admit that, despite his extreme opposition to Jenna poking around where she shouldn't, her declaration had caught his attention. He must have given this away, because Jenna didn't keep him waiting, "Matthew Cormack. Not his real name, as he didn't have one when British cleanup crews recovered his body in London."

She whipped out her omni-tool, bringing up a document there that, given what she read next, likely contained an accumulation of everything her investigation had discovered, "They found him buried under rubble in the Eaton Square Gardens, southeast of Hyde Park, where the Beam was located. He was taken to the Royal London Hospital, where he was declared unfit for duty, given a Section 8, and then transported to the Alliance rehabilitation facility on the outskirts of Joué-lès-Tours in France. He was given a medical discharge eleven months later by a Doctor Lise Delafosse, and then subsequently disappeared into the ether, never to be seen again...well, until he turned up on Illium and  _took over our organization_."

It was almost too much. The info dump that Jenna had just laid at his feet was so momentous that it was almost like being told that your parents were aliens after years of believing them to be human. Their mysterious leader had become not-so-mysterious in a matter of minutes, and Conrad didn't know how to process that fact. As such, he remained silent.

Jenna took that as a sign she had made her point, "Chellick told me the file had been nearly impossible to retrieve due to it being a sealed Alliance military record, but word spread quickly and Chellick got back to me saying that Doctor Delafosse herself reached out to him with the information. Apparently the Samaritan was recalled back to the facility for a reason that they deemed to be of paramount importance, but they couldn't disclose due to it being classified, yet he never showed up nor responded, and now the Alliance wants him back. I had to practically beg Chellick to tell me what he'd found, because he's technically not supposed to disclose that information to civilians. The name 'Matthew Cormack' isn't even his real name...its a name he got assigned because he couldn't even remember who he was prior to being found in London. He's an amnesia victim, Con. This 'liberator' we've chosen to lead us has got amnesia, and he's on the run from the military. Now, tell me, why would he keep that from us if not to deliberately mislead us?"

Conrad had nothing to say. Words had failed him long before she had finished off her checklist of evidence against the Samaritan, and his brain was currently fried from the revelations he had been heaped with. He now knew the Samaritan's real name...or, at least, the substitute for it that he had refused to divulge. He knew he had amnesia and that he was former Alliance military, and he fought in the final battle in London during the Reaper War. He had not revealed any of these facts to his followers, not even Conrad or Jenna, who was supposed to be his top lieutenants.

After a moment, he looked up at Jenna, shrugging with defeat, "Why...why didn't he tell us?"

Jenna blinked, and for a moment, sympathy for the betrayal he felt slipped past her mental defenses, despite her seething anger at the Samaritan, "Because he's broken, Con. He's a PTSD victim. The war broke him, and now he's acting on the delusional paranoia of his own head. He wants to rationalize the war by pursuing a just cause...he wants to make all the death worth something. He's using us to facilitate his personal goal for redemption, and he doesn't care who dies in pursuit of that. He's insane, Conrad, and he's dragged us right along with him into that madness. He has to be stopped."

Conrad nodded meekly, his energy sapped. Everything he believed felt like some vague lie now, his mind scrutinizing the detail of every single thing he had been told by the Samaritan up until this point, trying to peel back the layers to find the hidden manipulation underneath its rotten exterior, "We...we need to..." he gulped, trying to find his voice, "...we need to tell...everyone...he has to be...be..."

She shook her head, "No, we have to keep this to ourselves. At least for now. Just look at what happened today...the Samaritan was exposed for the fraud he is, yet he's turned that defeat into a victory, and now its almost like nothing happened. Any accusations we level at him, no matter the proof we have to back those claims, will be ruthlessly shot down. Even if we call him out infront of his followers, he'll worm his way out of it. We have to be smart, Con. We can't trust anyone but ourselves. For now, this needs to remain between us. Can you do that?"

He looked at her for a moment, hopelessly lost and confused. All his adult life, he had been looking for a purpose...for a renewal of spirit. All he wanted was a cause to believe in, because at his core, his core function was to follow. He wasn't a leader: Jenna was. His role was to follow and to have faith. When he had met Shepard, he became the idol he wished to follow, and that would never change. When the Samaritan came along, with his promises of salvation, liberation and exaltation...Conrad had believed all of it. Not because he was gullible, but because he was desperate to find meaning. Even if that meant extracting that meaning through lies, he would continue to follow it.

But now the man he followed was exposed as a fake. A phony. An elaborate net of fabrication under a single pretentious title that only served to hide his lies under a pretense of moral integrity and honorable intentions.

Whatever this man was...whoever he was...the Samaritan was not what he claimed. And while Conrad had been determined to follow him all the way before, he was no longer sure such an enterprise was for the greater good. Jenna had helped to shatter that illusion. She had pulled the blanket out from over his eyes, and shown him what was real. She cared.  _Truly_ cared. Not the Samaritan's pretend love...but actual, tangible, and demonstrable love.

She was someone he  _could_ trust.

"Yes," he whispered pathetically, sinking onto the bed behind him, the unmade sheets yielding to his body weight, "I can do that. But...what are we going to do? Without the support of the others..."

"Don't worry about that," Jenna assured him, crouching to his eye level as she reached forward and kissed him full on the lips. He enjoyed the fleeting moment before it was over again, leaving him to reflect on the context behind it, "I don't have a plan yet, and if I'm honest, I have no clue how we're going to stop him...but we're going to have any hope of doing so, we need to maintain surprise. The Samaritan  _cannot_ know we're onto him. If he thinks we know something we shouln't, he'll act. Let him believe we're still devout followers until the moment we're not. Then we'll strike. For now, we remain quiet and keep doing the motions. I know it feels wrong, but neither of us are soldiers. We'll die if he finds out what we know. So what do we do when the sun burns dimly?"

The prompt caused him to poke his head up, his eyes meeting hers. He remembered that line, and the counter. It was the same one they had uttered to each other the day they founded the Shepardist movement, and it would always be part of the same promise they had made to each other that day: never to lose track of who they are, and what they do.

The Samaritan had led them all astray. Jenna and Conrad, just as before, needed to be the guiding light that cast away that darkness, and led their people back to the light.

"We burn it again," he returned, "Until it burns brightly."

Conrad was a sheep. He wasn't a soldier. He wasn't a leader. He was woefully insignificant. A single, unimportant man in a galaxy dominated by the strongest.

But if there was one thing he had always been...it was persistent. It hadn't always worked in his favor, and sometimes it even got him into trouble, but it was his constant.

That he  _could_ do. And persistence was exactly what they would need in the war that loomed ahead.

* * *

 _Silversun Strip, The Citadel - January 27, 2188 - The day after_.

A roast lamb skank had never smelt as good to him as it did right then and there. It tasted even better.

The last twenty-four hours for Shepard had been the busiest he had experienced for over a year. He had gone from relaxing and getting used to his new lifestyle to giving a groundbreaking speech to the galaxy condemning a major religious extremist organization. It was definitely a leap for the former soldier, but despite dreading it, he had ultimately come to terms with the futility of delaying it any longer, and had finally succumbed to the political and peer pressure that had been placed on him to finally do it. And now that it was over and done with, he could return to putting his feet up.

But right now, he had time to kill. He had travelled from one half of the galaxy to another, so spending just a few hours on the Citadel seemed like a waste of time, especially considering he hadn't visited the space station since he left for Rannoch just over a year ago. He thought: while he was here, why not indulge?

The others certainly didn't complain. After Shepard wrapped up his address to the speech, which the media, in his opinion, rather pretentiously named 'the Citadel Address', making it seem like the most important set of words to be uttered in the past decade (anything to drum up views and ratings, really), the crew had followed him out of the Council Chambers back to the landing pad, once again to be escorted by C-Sec to his apartment. They had spent the rest of the day, and subsequent night, hanging out at the hotel, simply enjoying the time they had together. Shepard and Garrus went to grab take-out for dinner, and once everybody had left, Shepard and Tali had subsequently tired to bed, both worn out by the day's events.

When he woke up the next morning, he had felt...different. He couldn't exactly put his finger on it, and he spent most of his breakfast trying his best to associate some kind of sense to it. But nothing became of such thoughts. The day of the Citadel Address had wrought upon him the kind of chaotic enervation that would leave most people mentally and emotionally drained. Press conferences were stressful events after all, and there was a reason only certain people had the stamina, constitution and cerebral physique to not only pull it off with 'style and grace', but perform continuously, consistently and to the same standard that they held from the beginning. Politicians flourished in such environments, as did corporate execs, the military elite, news anchors, etc. Their reputation was born and killed based on their performance before the cameras, and their ability to form narratives on the go, produce fraudulent sincerity and other associated legerdemain was what made them professionals in their craft.

Shepard was a soldier: it was repetitive to say, but nonetheless true and a fact few seemed ot fully acknowledge. Many considered him good at diplomacy, but he truly believed that was a mere byproduct of what passion he could bring to the table, and not because he was a master at spinning up stories that the media could gobble up. He could whip up a speech, but it was on HIS terms. That's when he performed. That's when the passion burning inside him could churn out words of motivation. But when he was told he must say something along certain lines, with cameras all around to historically archive the moment he could potentially slip up and say the wrong thing...then his mind drew up blanks.

Luckily, for him, he and the Council had ended up wanting the same thing: an end to the Shepardists, and way to strip them of their credibility by hijacking the very name they used to jumpstart their terrorist enterprises. It was thanks to that solidarity, and that alone, that he pulled through at all.

So, really, he should have woken up just as exhausted and sapped of energy as he had been the day previously. But from the moment his eyes had shot open, all the way to when he had sat down to eat breakfast, Tali still somewhat asleep, he had been pumped full of energy which had originated from a source of indeterminate origin. This source was what he wanted to figure out, but he had quickly given up as his mind failed to determine what had caused it. All he definitively knew was that he had woken up feeling much better than the day before, full of rebirthed dynamism, and that any of the fatigue he had felt before had seemingly been washed away with the power of sleep. He hadn't felt this good in months, actually.

He supposed it was possible the speech had done more for his self-esteem and personal well-being than he would readily admit. He had avoided trying to get involved in the Shepardist crisis for so long, finding any legitimate reason he could to justify his non-involvement, but it had all been rendered moot in the end, and here he was. The pressure of knowing he had indirectly caused the Kepcedah incident, that he had allowed the circumstances in which one hundred and fifty thousand people died to spawn, had been devastating on his mindset. To finally release that guilt, to feel that he had been vindicated, by finally coming out and condemning those he knew to be ultimately responsible for that pointless destruction of life, had felt momentously relieving. Perhaps so much so that all the stress he had felt in trying to not get involved over the past few months had finally been eradicated, allowing him to feel nothing but solace going forward, hence his current state of mind.

He couldn't be sure. In all honesty, it really didn't matter what caused it or why it was happening to him on today of all days. All that truly mattered to him was that he had played his part in this new game. The Shepardists were playing chess. He had moved the queen into position for a checkmate, and now all the Council had to do was finish their move. His participation in the crisis had been little, but in regards to the larger picture, it had been massive as well. Nothing he did could make up for the deaths of one hundred and fifty thousand innocents, and in the end it would only add to the blood that already soaked his hands red, but what little he could do would be enough to destroy the Samaritan and his FAICRU, and allow him a small iota of peace. It would have to do.

He wasn't a soldier anymore. His fighting days were long gone. The best he could do was to utilize what weapons he had left to defeat his final enemy: his own image. And he had done so, with pleasure. The rest could be handled by the Council and their many counter-terrorist resources.

Tali hadn't been long behind him in terms of waking up, emerging from the bedroom just after he had tucked into his cereal, roused awake by his sudden disappearance from the bed. Apparently this newfangled vibrancy was contagious, as the quarian was up and about much faster than even he had been. To be sure, quarians were light sleepers by necessity, and it was a habit their species would find very difficult to overcome, but even Tali was more energetic this time of morning than most quarians were. He smiled at the sight of it, and the two had migrated to the dining room to watch whatever they could find on the extranet to view. From there, they had planned what they wanted to do for the day, and quickly concluded they weren't quite ready to return to Rannoch yet.

Tali had been surprised by his desire to remain on the Citadel for a bit longer, he noticed. Likely she had believed he'd want to return to Rannoch as quickly as possible, putting as much distance between him and galactic politics as he possibly could. He was just surprised as she was, having declared days ago himself that he wouldn't remain on the space station any longer than he had to, so his lack of eagerness to leave was just as astounding to himself as it was to her, he imagined. But those feelings were there, and he felt necessitated to act on them. He had an opportunity that he likely wouldn't encounter again for a long time, so there was no reason for him to not jump on it.

Where was the harm in it?

So they had discussed what they wanted to do: visiting the Silversun strip had come up on the agenda, and considering how much fun they had the last time they had visited it, it was nearly a given. Anderson's apartment, which had been owned by Kahlee Sanders since the war ended, was located in the Tiberius Towers, just off the Silversun strip itself, which was why the crew had cruised along its many shops and exhibitions during their shore leave towards the end of the war. Located on Tayseri Ward, the Silversun was a resort city in and of itself, much in the same vein as Las Vegas on Earth, and as such favoured itself as the nucleus for the indulgences of the rich. Mega casinos, top-shelf combat arenas, super arcades, first-rate restaurants, the list went on. Shepard's crew were well off, for sure, but not really among the opulent one percent that were more likely to engage in the strip's many offerances.

Nonetheless, the strip was a gold mine of activities, and Shepard had immensely enjoyed their time there. He had never encountered the strip during its normal business hours, largely due to the fact there had been a war on and most people were either off fighting in it, or the ones that weren't were talking or influenced by it. Being able to experience the strip without needing to be reminded of what world the Reapers were advancing on, or how the war was affecting life on the Citadel, would be a nice change as well. With all of this in mind, and after running a brief search of any catalogues they could find, they were quickly able to find some sites of interest to visit. It wasn't long before they had an entire day trip planned out of it. Before they knew it, they were in a skycar heading for the strip, C-Sec not far behind with their escort cars.

Shepard had a million things running through his head on their way there as to what he wanted to do. He had already put the Citadel Address at the back of his mind, not even wanting to dwell on it or think about it. He was here to have fun and spend time with his soon-to-be wife, and nothing was going to get in the way of that, not even the politics of the galaxy. The Shepardists were a non-issue at that moment, and with all the positive influence he felt being exerted upon his body and soul, he felt as if life couldn't get much better. Where this positivity was coming from may be an enigma, but wasn't was what he planned to do with it all...do as  _much_  as possible.

Again, what was the harm? The war was over. He was retired. His life was now his to do with as he pleased, as odd as that sounded.

As their skycar crested the skyline, the strip quickly came into view, the dazzling array of flashing neon lights, flashing holographic billboards and elaborate sign designs easily giving away the location and existence of the gentrified district. Given the elitist and high demand nature of the strip, parking was extremely difficult to acquire, and required paying a ticket for a certain amount of time parked. Not willing to allow time with Tali to be ruined because of a simple parking issue, a quick drop of his name and the reminder of C-Sec escorts hovering behind him quickly motivated the parking supervisor to grant them a one hundred percent discount, and the last parking space.

Being C-Sec, their police escorts simply dropped a guard each into the parking lot and then rose up to join the traffic above. Shepard wasn't happy about being followed around by armed guards, not only because they were intrusive but they also drew unwanted attention, as the sight of eight C-Sec officers trailing a lone man and a quarian in a heavily populated area tended to do. All he wanted to do was spend some time with his fiance, but apparently they had their orders, and not even Shepard could alter that. Tali's suggestion was simple: pretend they weren't there.

Her suggestion worked. A little.

As they descended into the busy streets alone, bustling with crowds of people so tightly packed in that it was like striding through Times Square in New York City, people of numerous species intermingling and enjoying the attractions and entertainment the strip provided in abundance. A single look at Tali would find her heavily tinted mask reflecting the light of flashing signs and billboards, the frosted glass of her helmet providing a nearly perfect reverse image of those same lights. The intensity was so great that he couldn't even see her eyes, and the quarian herself was unequivocally enthralled in the world they had elected to delve into. Tali herself had never really ventured into the strip itself during their previous stay, having only visited the strip's Silver Coast Casino during their mission to take down Shepard's own clone. While technically a date, the fact that they had spent most of the time distracting guards and facilitating an infiltration into a highly guarded panic room had put a damper on that part, stopping them from truly enjoying themselves.

So, in reality, this was Tali's first actual experience along the strip, and she was fascinated by it. While Shepard and Tali could go to El'Tivv to spend time together, the fact the city was only over a year old and hadn't established a proper tourist industry meant that there weren't many places they could visit that they could mutually enjoy. The Citadel, however, was the multicultural center of galactic civilization, and was perfect for a dextro and a levo to find places to visit. Not to mention the extravagant, unsullied nature of the district was a far cry from anything the quarians currently possessed. Tali had lamented that Rannoch's cities prior to the Exodus were a joy to behold, and while they couldn't hold a candle to the nonpareil, pulchritudinous glory of Thessia's megapolises, they were considered achievements amongst their quarian architects, domed spires of glass towering into the sky, powerful structures of concrete so robust and sturdy that they remained standing on Haestrom even centuries later. The look saddened him, reminding him of everything the quarians as a people had been through, but he also knew that she was hopeful.

One day, given a few decades, the quarians could once again have strips like this on their own homeworld. Cities to call their own...places to call home. It would take time, but with the geth to help them, the process might not take as long as it would have without them. Based on their home alone, what should have taken them a year was carved down to a few months. Rannoch would see civilization again. And then Tali would wonder, maskless, among throes of her own people, amidst buildings of their own making, to engage in the businesses of Rannoch's homegrown economy. One day.

That was the future they'd won, and now they had all the time they could want to make it a reality.

Hand in hand, the two of them made their way through the crowds, sticking close together whilst exploring the storefront. It didn't take long for Tali to be all over a tech shop called 'Gears 'n' Tears', the array of options available to her leaving the engineer practically salivating...well, at least he could jokingly imagine such a sight, her mask so close to the glass cases of displayed omni-tools, domestic drones, and other assorted technologies on display that she looked like a child at a toy store. The salarian techie who worked there was all too eager to engage Tali in the techno-babble she so enjoyed, and it wasn't long before a long list of tech jargon was being exchanged at such a rapidfire pace that it sent Shepard's mind reeling. Not surprising: he had always considered himself a bit of an idiot when it came to technology.

_Give me a rifle, and I'll dismantle it in seconds, reassemble it, and then kill something with it. Give me a combat drone...and how do I turn it on?_

Most men's wives or girlfriends went to clothing stores and spent hours picking out what dress to buy. Tali preferred the world of technology, and her hours were spent on which upgrade would better enhance the performance of her omni-tool's RAM and CPU. She even enjoyed perusing gun stores to see what new shotgun or pistol she could get, which was one obsession they had in common.

By the end of it, Tali had probably purchased about six upgrades to her omni-tool that she didn't have before. Luckily for Shepard, the gun store wasn't far away...and Tali was all too happy to browse the shelves right along with him.

Unfortunately, Shepard's fear that their C-Sec escort would rouse attention quickly came to fruition. The salarian tech Tali talked with had been too enraptured in his conversation with Tali to really notice the guards standing outside his store, but the gun store clerk had gotten quite nervous seeing lightly armed and armoured security troopers standing outside the entrance to his store. Not only was it scaring away interested customers, it was making him a little worried, and understandably so: while gun control on the Citadel had tightened ever since the Battle of the Citadel several years ago, those with the appropriate licenses could still purchase weapons and armor, they just couldn't walk out of the store with them. This meant black market weapons deals were still common amongst the Citadel's criminal underworld, and the presence of a C-Sec contingent outside your store would be enough to scare any gun store manager, no matter their innocence.

Of course, not wanting to scare the owner, Shepard let slip the real reason for why they were there.

He  _really_ wished he hadn't made all those endorsements three years ago. Now everybody wanted one, and this guy had been no exception.

The crowds were interested too. A man and a quarian surrounded by C-Sec personnel turned heads, and soon everybody knew exactly who they were: who wouldn't? He had only just addressed the entire galaxy for every media outlet to bear witness to yesterday, so the memory of what he looked like was still fresh on people's minds, and just enough for fingers to be pointed, people to part way and people to start shouting and cheering.

And, just like that, the quiet time he wished to spend with his girlfriend was over. Not that he was about to let that ruin his day. He was not about to have his date ruined by fans: casual, borderline religious, or otherwise.

It wasn't hard to execute his plan: what had become his bane actually proved to be quite advantageous. With fans closing in to gain access to their hero and savior, the officers finally found something to do other than watching him like a hawk, and were forced to form a wall around the two to keep the tide of living flesh trying to fall upon them. With only two guards left to watch them, all Shepard had to do was point them in the direction of a 'somewhat angry looking krogan' and they were distracted just long enough for him to grab Tali's hand and sprint into a nearby alleyway, not stopping until they were on the other side of the gathering crowd. Even if their guards knew where they were, they would need to work their way through a wall of rabid fans to get to them.

"John," Tali had said, giggling all the way, "They're there to protect us. Did we really need to slip past them like that?"

He shrugged, "They were annoying. Besides, now we can have a proper date, can't we?"

Tali wasn't going to argue that any further, although she did suggest disguising his appearance if he wished to continue going unnoticed. One visit to the store later, and the cap he wore over his head was more than enough to keep his face from circulating any further. Hand in hand, they continued deeper into the strip, going through store after store.

His fiance had expressed some concern over his brief sprint through the alleyway, worried that it might flare up a reaction in his right leg, but he had expressed that he not only felt fine, but that the limp there wasn't anywhere near as prominent. In fact, he felt like he could walk normally, almost completely without pain, and Shepard began to wonder if perhaps this was a sign that he was making a recovery. Doctor Stoneman had indeed asseverated to him that it was extremely unlikely he would ever walk normally again, and that mobility in his right leg was permanently impaired, but Shepard had achieved the impossible in the past...was it possible his right leg had not only healed faster than predicted, but was also returning to full functionality? He dared to dream.

It seemed like nothing would conquer his high spirits now. Waking up feeling more alive than he had in months, escaping from underneath the watchful eyes of his C-Sec sentinels, only to learn that his right leg was working perfectly fine, better than it had in over a year...it was a non-stop rush of emotions and adrenaline that seemed to hype him up more and more, filling him with the same sense of invincibility that he hadn't felt since the Reaper War's end. It felt good. Amazing.

Tali was just as ecstatic as he was. She had supported him from the very moment that he learned of this disability, and the broader implications it had on his life from the point forward, and the pain he felt over it seemed to resonate and pass on to her, almost like their nervous systems and minds were synced up. He felt her pain as well, and knew that she hated having to feel sympathy for him, because she knew he resented people having to feel that way for him. But now she had seen it for herself: his right leg indeed worked just fine, and he hadn't...suffered any episodes like he had back at the hospital. He was alive. Rejuvenated.

_I can't believe it..._

If his body was about to give out on him, it gave no indication. Hours were spent going from store after store, and no sign of the burning agony that would rush up his right leg everytime he was about to encounter an incident showed up. He felt perfectly fine, and the limp was almost entirely gone, with only the barest hint of it left behind. He could feel himself improving with each movement. He was recuperating.

The feeling left a near constant smile on his face, and by result alone, that kept Tali happy. Shepard had the overwhelming urge to test his body's new capability and take it to the absolute limits, but that would have to wait, he knew. For now, he could enjoy what he had, and simply bask in the massive difference it brought to his life.

Eventually, they reached the far end of the strip, where the Silver Coast Casino and the Castle Arcade could be seen towering beside each other, lines of eager customers waiting to get into the arcade while a pair of bouncers, a turian and a hanar oddly enough, stood outside the casino, guarding its entrance with a level of silent seriousness that seemed almost comical in nature. A quick flash of credentials and they were admitted inside with little problem.

Inside, the Silver Coast Casino was just as packed as it had been the first time they were. A spherical center made up the majority of the complex, with an array of slot machines on the right side and virtual race betting on the left, with the structure ending in a U-shaped staircase behind them leading to an upper level with a bar. As the name suggested, the walls seemed to carry a silver sheen and carried that same theme throughout. Pairs of security guards roamed around the entertainment areas, while the patrons that outnumbered them made full use of the facilities the casino had to provide.

Standing at the entrance, Shepard had turned to Tali and asked, "I wonder who runs this place with Elijah Khan being dead?"

Tali had shrugged, "Don't know, don't care."

He couldn't argue with that.

With the two not really sharing much interest in the many gambling opportunities the casino provided, especially given none of them really valued the concept of throwing their money away at risky, and more-often-than-not fruitless, exercises, the two quickly found themselves moving upstairs to the casino's restaurant so that they could grab a bite to eat.

However, upon entering the place and being guided to a table, neither of them could have predicted that Garrus and Kasumi, out of all the places they could have gone to, would end up being seated at the exact restaurant they were at. As such, they ended up seated with the turian and their kleptomaniac friend, Shepard ordering a roast lamb shank with potatoes, gravy and chips while Tali got a simple but (according to her) delicious plate of what looked to be green corn chips with violet dipping sauce.

And so there they were, eating away, simply enjoying each other's company without having to worry about outside factors. All the while, Shepard's right leg continued to tap idly under the table, with no discernable change in its performance. Even the slight ache that was usually present when he moved the limb seemed to have evaporated, leaving it feeling good as new. Having that leg damaged for as long as it had been was something Shepard hated to the core, given he had been able to rely on it before that. To have its full functionality restored was a godsend, and not something he would take for granted. All this knowledge did was feed his already jubilant attitude.

After slurping up what looked like the turian equivalent of a noodle (Shepard didn't even want to know what it actually was, given turians were naturally carnivorous), Garrus turned to Shepard, arm braced on top of the table as his mandibles hugged the side of his face, forming a grin, "So what's the plan now that you've brutally thrashed the hopes and dreams of thousands of people across the galaxy?"

Swallowing the slice of lamb that he had just finished chewing, Shepard laughed as he used the napkin beside him to wipe the film of grease that had begun to drip down his chin and lips. Once finished, he faced his friend with an amused glint in his eye, shrugging nonchalantly, "What I've been trying to do since I left Earth: relax, get married, get a normal damn job. I could have sworn I promised that I had made the last of my speeches back in that hospital in London."

Garrus laughed at that, "Not the first time you've broken a promise for the greater good, right?"

"I suppose," he admitted, licking his lips as he took a bite out of a chip, "But I think I truly am done with speeches now. Well, unless you count my vows."

"Oh, they count, Shep," Kasumi piped up. Her hood was down, which was a very rare sight of the thief, allowing a full view of her asian features, "I can't  _wait_ to see what you have to say."

He narrowed his eyes at her, eyebrow raised suspiciously, "I know that look, Kasumi. The answer is no."

The thief pouted, "Not even a little look?"

"Nope," he declared, "Mostly because I haven't written it down."

"You're winging it?" Garrus asked, flabbergasted, "I mean, its your wedding, Shepard. Don't you think perhaps the occasion calls for a bit of...preparation?"

Shepard smiled, shaking his head, turning to Tali as he reached out and grasped one of the hands she had left next to him on the table, "When have I ever not winged anything? Besides, I want what I say to come from the heart, not from a datapad. I know, that when the time comes to give my vows, I'll know exactly what I want and need to say."  _Plus, when I say it, my eyes are never leaving yours, Tali. No glancing down at a datapad to remember a rehearsed line. All from the heart._

"That is so damn cheesy," Kasumi declared, giggling. She then turned to Tali, her amusement toned down to be replaced by genuine happiness, "But incredibly earned. All the things we've seen, all the things you've been through...we've earned cheesy. We've earned the cliches."

"Happy endings don't seem so trivial when you've looked the apocalypse in the eye and dared it to blink," Garrus added, for once keeping any jokes about his mock disgust at Shepard and Tali's displays of affection to himself, now completely serious.

Shepard nodded, finishing his meal as he sat back, hand still holding Tali's, "I had gone into the war thinking I was going to die. I had a very vague goal in mind of what I wanted to do when it was over...but I always told myself I had to win the war first before I planned for what came after. But if there was one thing I was sure of...it was asking Tali to be my wife. That was always going to happen if we both survived. We did...so its time I completed that mission."

"Well, its not long now," Garrus pointed out, "What is it...only just under a month now until the big day? No way will I miss that."

"I hope not. You're my best man," Shepard poked.

"Damn right I am," the turian retorted, "And no pseudo-evangelicals are going to stop that, that's  _my_ promise. Wouldn't miss that moment for the whole galaxy."

Shepard smiled: it was becoming a common occurrence. Despite the whole fact that there were possibly thousands of crazy, militantly religious nutjobs pedalling his name as gospel out in the galaxy at this very moment, committing heinous acts of terrorism in an attempt to shatter galactic peace and bring about a new age of turmoil and war, Shepard couldn't care less at this moment. Before he had chosen to heed Garrus' advice and condemn the Shepardists publicly, he had thought his non-intervention would bring him the closest to inner tranquility and permanent rest. Rannoch was so far from modern civilization and the prying eye that it also seemed like the furthest outpost from which to settle down, free from the strife that was ongoing elsewhere. He had allowed himself to think his isolation would lead to a stagnation in his actions having consequences, as he would no longer be around to make them occur.

But as so many had said, done and shown, he had been wrong on every fundamental level. His isolation by itself had consequences that were far more damaging than he could have realized, and while he certainly couldn't have predicted the surge of pro-Shepard sentiment galaxy wide, and definitely not to the extent of religious infatuation with him, he definitely could have put a lid on the situation sooner by tackling it earlier on. But he didn't, and as a result, Kepcedah was reduced to rubble, and hundreds of thousands needlessly died for the insane ideology of a lunatic and his band of ridiculous worshippers. There were many times where he was wrong, but never on a scale such as that...he had been forced to act then, to do something to turn the tide against those who would incite violence across the Milky Way in the wake of the armageddon they had just barely survived.

Garrus had been right. Tali had seen it too, but had been too worried to break it to him. He had been wrong, and he saw that now. With his speech, he had broken the back of the Shepardist movement, cracked open their rabid beliefs, and had likely set the stage for a schism that would lead to the complete disintegration of their religion in just over a few months. His words would do that. He hadn't need to spit on them, or attack them...all he had needed to do was deny them the approval of their god, and everything they knew would come crashing down ontop of them.

He turned to Tali again, his smile still the beacon of strength as it had been minutes before, before turning to face Garrus as well, "You were right, Garrus. The whole damn time. I should have known the Samaritan wouldn't let up, and yet I let it continue. I'm just glad I finally came to my senses. At least now we know the cultists will be history very soon."

Garrus nodded, holding up a hand to halt him, "I don't want you or Tali to think about it any further: the  _Normandy_ will handle this, as we always have. If the Samaritan persists, it'll be from a greatly weakened position. You've stolen his credibility and approval from him, and that'll likely cause him to lash out. When he does, we'll be there to catch him red handed, and then we'll take him back to the Citadel in cuffs. The threat his organization posed is over. I want you two to focus on your future together, and not what the Samaritan is doing half a galaxy away. This is  _your_  moment, not his."

"Thank you, Garrus," Tali thanked, clearly touched by her friend's concern, "And you're right. We're not going to spend another second thinking about the Samaritan or his people. The fighting is past us. Right now, all  _we_  care about is getting bonded."

They all held a toast to that. To friends and family. To two heroes getting married, who've earned their happiness ten times over.

Shepard's stubborn refusal to approach the issue head on seemed like an eternity ago now. A moment of impropriety brought on by unreasonable paroxysms, his fragile mind simply unwilling to accept the reality of his inaction. His isolation had done no one any favors, but now, he had fixed that. He could return to Rannoch, of the knowledge that the last threat to galactic stability had been nullified, and able to finally move forward. It seemed so surreal...like he was living a dream that was on loop, and one he just wasn't going to wake up from. A pleasant dream where everything went as planned, and the misery and suffering of reality faded from the cosmic norm to be replaced by arcadia sempiternal. Any moment now he would wake up, still buried under several metric tonnes of concrete and rubble, and would die a slow, painful death, alone and far away from friends, but knowing he had saved civilization itself from certain destruction.

But if this was a dream, it had yet to end. And he hoped it never did. If this new life was to be a mere projection of the mind, a window into what the afterlife looked like, then so be it. But no matter how many times he pinched his skin, he never did awaken.

And no matter how much he moved or over-exerted his right leg...it never did burn.

For whatever reason, this brought an idea to mind. Before his acursed injuries had befallen him, he had made it a habit to utilize combat arenas or shooting ranges to keep his skills honed and constantly up to scratch. To become complacent was to show weakness, and on the battlefield, such a mistake would surely cost him. So he never allowed himself that level of vulnerability, always using what free time he had to descend upon the combat arena, spin up a battle scenario, and mow down legions of enemy soldiers. At times, he would even indulge his fascination with history at the same time, utilizing his knowledge of the wars and battles of human history to create scenarios in the simulator in which he could fight. Sometimes he would fight in and around the city of Bastogne in 1944, help SAS storm the Iranian embassy in 1980, lead a special forces raid on a UIS camp in 2063 or even beat back turian assault troops in the First Contact War. Virtual reality allowed him to access history through a personal lense, and he allowed that to scratch two itches at the same time.

Right now, that itch was coming back, and he so badly wanted to scratch it.

He, of course, had stopped using the simulators. Not only were they inaccessible, but his condition made their use very dangerous. Doctor Stoneman had told him over exertion would cause a flare up in his implants, and ultimately led to further incidents like the one he encountered at the hospital. His right leg was always the culprit for such episodes, and he had soon gotten the message. But with his right leg now perfectly fine, there surely wouldn't be any harm in scratching that itch once more...

He didn't really think about it. He didn't need to. He was so high on endorphins and adrenaline right now that he could have conquered anything. A combat simulator seemed the least likely to put him at risk, "Before we leave...I hear Armax Arsenal Arena is still up and running. How about we see if I've still got it?"

The table fell silent for a moment, looks being exchanged. After a moment, Tali was the one to break it, grasping his hand to get him to turn towards her, which he did, "John...are you sure? I mean, I know you said your right leg felt fine, but running down an alleyway is quite different to fighting a battle."

He reached his other hand over to rest ontop of hers, making sure he evoked as much confidence as he possibly could, "I feel great, Tali. Better than I have in months. Besides, do you see any combat arenas being built in El'Tivv anytime soon? This might be my last chance to fight in an arena, and I want to make full use of it. I need to release some frustration, and I think some high stakes battle will let me vent some of it."

Tali didn't look entirely convinced, but upon seeing the look of pure confidence reflected in his own eyes, she finally gave a reluctant nod, "Okay. Well, I'm up for it if you are."

"I know I am," Garrus announced, turning to Shepard with a smirk, "But how about we put a spin on it? No holograms. VI at Armax is pretty decent, but it still can't program enemy tactics and strategy worth a damn, so you might as well be fighting stonewalls. So how about we instead fight each other? We all know each other's tactics, and we're not run by a VI, so it'll make sure we have to work for our victory. We'll split into teams and see how we go. What do you say?"

Shepard could only grin in return, "You're on, Vakarian. Although I think we should get more people in on this if we want a proper battle."

The turian granted him that point, "Agreed. I'll get Ash and Churchill to join us."

"What do you say, Tali?" Shepard asked his quarian partner, crossing his arms as he cocked his head in her direction, "Ready to kick this dino's ass?"

"I wouldn't be so confident, Shepard," Garrus piped up, not looking worried whatsoever at Shepard's bravado, and that caught him offguard for a second, "To make it more interesting, I'm going to introduce a second rule. Ah yes, this will make it  _very_ interesting indeed."

As the turian chuckled to himself, Shepard could only narrow his eyes at his friend, obliviously joined by Tali just beside him.

What exactly did Garrus have in mind that he was so smug about?

* * *

 _Armax Arsenal Arena, The Citadel - January 27, 2188 - 20 minutes later_.

_That smug little bastard._

Well, Garrus certainly hadn't disappointed when he said he had a surprise rule to throw into the mix of their little combat scenario. Of course, Shepard hadn't exactly planned or anticipated the exact nature of Garrus' schemes, but the turian and Shepard had always bounced off each other in that respect. When they weren't being grimly cynical, they were exchanging mock-derogatory remarks or self-deprecating humor. However, what held this behaviour together was that neither side would be prepared for what the other did next, because they went out of their way to make the next one as unexpected as possible, practically subverting their expectations each and every single time. For better or worse, neither of them had failed to live up to their own standards.

The same energy that had convinced him this was a good idea was still running rampant through his mind and body, and that overbearing effervescence definitely wasn't going to run dry anytime soon. Now, thanks to being basically blitzed on ebullience, Shepard felt as strong and pertinacious as he had prior to London, entering the arena just as prepared as he would be for an actual combat deployment. His mind was already working overtime, thinking of squad tactics, how best to use the terrain allocated to him, how to allocate roles to his team members, etc. As a soldier, and more importantly as a former CO, these instincts and decisions occurred to him as naturally as breathing, and took place within just a few seconds of being given time to plan. Such skills had been taught and emphasized to him by the veterans of the officer corps, and even after he had been supposedly retired for good, those same skills demonstrated just how engrained into his psyche they truly were.

Essentially, the only part of the routine that they  _didn't_ engage in was getting geared up. The ritual of whipping out their armor and strapping it on, then running a systems check to ensure everything was running smoothly, then allocating whatever weapons the mission called for. No such ritual was required in a virtual sim, as whatever program was booted up provided such necessities by default of its code. If the player wished to customize their loadout, then they could do so prior to the game, but the experience felt a bit too disconnected for Shepard's liking. He enjoyed the process of combing through a selection of guns, deciding whether he wanted an assault rifle or a light machine gun, and then strapping his armor, piece by piece. To have that experience stolen from him and reduced down to button presses and a toneless VI confirming selections felt...empty, by comparison. Nonetheless, he was thankful that they at least provided his favoured loadout.

Armax Arsenal had a long and well documented history, a lot of which Shepard had read up on in his spare time. Easily one of the oldest ongoing companies in galactic history, Armax Arsenal could trace its origins to the middle of the centuries-long Secupian Continental Wars on Palaven, in and around 1072 BCE (531 BU). The powerful Aemilionian Hierarchy set out across the Secupian supercontinent, warring with the turian nation states of Flopilia, Adrapanus, Romullienus, Quimus, Gatarki and others, during a time where they still fought with swords and rode  _shatha_  into battle. The ArchGeneral of the Aemilionian armies, Armax the Breaker, came from a long line of master swordsmiths: the best in Cipritine. This dynasty would continue for centuries, even surviving the Final Wars of the Aemilionian Hierarchy in 723 BCE. As turian society evolved, the inevitable rise of corporations took hold, and the Armax dynasty became Armax Arsenal, and a chief supplier of the Aemilionian Republic's military. Even when the sword was replaced by the rifle, Armax persevered, able to adapt and change where other companies crumbled into the dust of history.

Today, the Armax Arsenal was one of three companies that produced weapons and vehicles for Palaven's armed forces, and its R&D facilities were some of the most technologically sophisticated in the galaxy. While their equipment was notoriously expensive outside of their defense contracts with the Hierarchy, it was well sought after, and just recently the Systems Alliance had put in for a renewal of its own contract with Armax, which was now competing with the Alliance's homegrown Lionhead Armoury for a share of the Alliance defense market.

However, the biggest monopoly Armax held that no other company had managed to topple thus far was virtual combat sims. They had that part of the market cornered, and were yet to be pulled down from that throne. Their combat arenas were legendary for their state-of-the-art facilities, and as was expected of a military-grade weapons manufacturer, they catered to the needs of the military, while also providing adequate civilian accomodations as well. Armax Arsenal arenas were so famous that many copycats had been produced throughout the Terminus Systems, hoping to emulate their success. Most failed however, while others in the Terminus preferred the bloodier, barbaric practice of gladiator style blood sports, such as the Urban Combat Championships or Bloodnebula tournaments that the Batarian Hegemony in its heyday had personally funded.

Shepard had visited many combat sims, but the Armax Arsenal had the best, and the one on the Citadel received the most traffic. Not only were matches broadcasted across the galaxy during tournaments, but the complex, owned by Armax CIV Canion (a direct descendant of the founder himself, hence the number in his title), loved to boast of the many well known operators who had used his facility. Spectres such as Saren Arterius and Zurparth Biyore. N7s such as the Black Jackals, Anderson, Alec Ryder and Shepard himself. Asari commando units, including the Widows of Nevos. The Hierarchy's most feared Blackwatch unit, the Armiger Legion. Quarian  _Tecr'fer_  (the closest english translation is 'Desert Foxes') squads, before and after the Exodus. Even less famous, but equally reputable, operators made use of its facilities. C-Sec's tactical units used them to train for breach-and-clears, knock-and-pops, hostage situations, bomb defusal, etc. Blood sport champions used them to train for big battles. During the Reaper War, it was even used by the UGC's N7 Special Operations Group to train their multi-species units to work together with combined tactics and strategies, which is what allowed the differing operational ideologies of the quarian Desert Foxes, turian Blackwatch, asari commandos, Alliance Blue Falcons and N7s, salarian STG and the like to work together.

So yes, Armax CIV had every reason to gloat. Hell, as Shepard and his friends had walked through the atrium towards one of the complex's arenas, they had seen pictures of the many famous visitors hanging from the walls, Armax's idea for trophies. The theme of each display was that Armax would take a photo with the visitor: something Shepard regretted immediately upon seeing one such photo with himself in it, still fresh from becoming an N7.

Next to his one and on the right however was the Black Jackals, one of Shepard's idols, alongside Alec Ryder, when he was rising through the Alliance ranks. They were quite easily the most famous N7 combat unit in existence. Of the thirteen operators to be named N7s at the very genesis of the organization, only one didn't become a Black Jackal, largely due to refusing the honor. Having started as a ground escort for expeditionary units, the Black Jackals twelve members were formed from each of Earth's best special forces, representing each of Earth's many nations. The American Navy SEALs, Australian and British SAS, Israel's Unit 269, Germany's KSK, France's GIGN, Russian Spetsnaz, Japan's SFG...the list went on. Their success was measured not by the corpses they left in their wake, but by their mission successes, and they had never been defeated. Ever.

Shepard had practically been smitten with them, and even to this day, he was still in awe of their seemingly superhuman ability, despite his own career advancements. They were like a myth, with all knowledge of their abilities, strategies, deployments and even their identities so heavily redacted that not even their own handlers knew who they were: only their existence was made public knowledge, and even that held a single purpose: the mere thought of the Black Jackals being sent after you kept even the most fearless of warlords, slavers and politicians in check. Whether they even still existed was a matter of some debate, especially in the wake of the Reaper War.

If spectres were above the law, then the Black Jackals didn't even register on the scale. They existed, and didn't, all at the same time. But when they showed up, you were fucked.

So yes...Armax Arsenal Arena was more than bloody famous. It was warrior central.

The other reason Armax Arsenal's combat arenas were so highly sought after was because of the myriad of flexible, multi-layered options the system was designed to accomodate. The users would step into a simple, but large, chamber that was perimetered with linings of holo projectors that covered the walls, ceiling and floor. The holo projectors would then be fired up by the VI overseeing the arena and create a holographic, hardlight rendering of the environment that has been requested. Now, pulling this off wasn't as sophisticated as it may seem, and wasn't why the Armax was able to outcompete its competitors: the real reason why it was so difficult to replicate was that it wasn't your usual holo sim. Hardlight was extremely difficult to pull off, often requiring enormous amounts of resources to reconstruct. He didn't understand the exact science behind it, but hardlight was the transformation of light into tangible surfaces, whereas softlight, like most holographic technologies, turned light into intangible, transparent objects which all matter could pass through.

Omni-weapons, for example, used hardlight, while holographic keyboards used softlight, registering user's fingertips using motion sensors, simply creating the illusion of typing. Armax simply used hardlight to make the simulations seem more real and visceral, enhancing the experience. Another addition was that the simulaton kept track of the user's position relative to the chamber they were in, and adjusted the environment accordingly, in essence fooling the player into thinking they are moving around an open area, whereas in reality they are standing still. Finally, the simulator had a vast catalogue of smells, and simulated feelings such as a cool breeze on one's skin, the taste of blood in one's mouth, etc. None of these things had successfully been pulled off by other competing arenas, which was why they were ahead of the game; and why so many preferred to use their facilities over a simple training field.

Why shoot static, inanimate objects when you can shoot virtual enemy soldiers?

However, the arenas weren't perfect: no system was. As excellently crafted as they may have been, the VI that operated all that software and hardware was as simplistic as they came, giving further credence to the epithet of 'dumb AI' or 'budget AI' that VIs were lampooned with. Due their extremely simplistic programming, VIs were left as a product of their creator, and could only be as good as they were designed to be. And while Armax Arsenal were masters at constructing weapons, they weren't specialized in manufacturing VIs, which were mostly outsourced from tech giants such as Synthetic Insights. And while SI produced top-grade VI software, they were still limited to their programming constraints, and weren't coded to have exceptional adaptation, evolution or smart-thinking techniques. SI were fully capable of adding these, but everybody remembers the last time somebody else took that extra step, and what it resulted in.

Nobody was going to start another Morning War over wanting to improve a combat arena. Not only that, but the Citadel Conventions explicitly forbid it, and while SI was one of few companies sanctioned by the Council to be exempt from AI research and development laws, they weren't allowed to sell these products to other companies, especially ones with ties to the military-industrial complex. However, with the geth having come to the galaxy's rescue during the war with the Reapers, and fighting side by side with the Council races, those laws might see some revision sometime soon.

The point here was that VIs couldn't adapt or evolve based on what the user wanted, and it was Citadel law that no VI, no matter how advanced, could have the ability to self-modify its own programming, even for the purposes of improvement. This meant the arenas suffered, and while the combat sims did offer clever and enhanced enemy AI tactics thinking, they were very basic, and a veteran of the sim could very easily outsmart them, especially once the extent of their tactical limitations was exploited and learned. In essence, for a squad of warrior virtuosos such as Shepard's, they were no challenge. They were as threatening as second-rate mercs.

That's why most military training programs didn't make use of them, and instead pitted real-life soldiers against each other, with only the situations and locales being simulated. It was this exact style that Shepard's team, in their exercise, would be using today...facing off against each other, instead of dumb, virtual targets. Now  _that_ was a challenge: having fought together, they were well-versed in the combat style, strengths and weaknesses, mentality, strategies and tactics, etc. of their friends, and thus a fight would be difficult. Shepard had often made use of this exact kind of exercise during stays on the Citadel to make sure his squad was constantly evolving and adapting, holding to the military  _dictum_ that 'static fighting styles, no matter how successful, will eventually prove fatal.' The battlefield was constantly seeing new foes taking swings at each other, and to remain static was to invite failure. What worked with one enemy won't work with another. In ancient antiquity, the Gauls fell victim to this very mistake: once they found a strategy that worked against their Roman enemies, they would repeat it,  _ad nauseum_ , totally unprepared for when the Romans quickly anticipated and countered it, rendering their 'genius tactic' useless. The Gauls were never good at adapting, and that's why the Romans eventually conquered them.

Right now, however, Shepard's squad didn't fight because the next battle might depend on it. Now they did it for fun, and because it was what they were good at. Whatever future they may all have, their skill in the art of combat would always stick with them.

Ashley had been all too eager to join them, of course, and Churchill likely just followed along to observe more 'organic behaviour', and because it really didn't have a reason not to. Soon, the six of them had rented a suite, with Garrus customizing the entire scenario in secret so as to keep it a surprise. The turian was clearly pleased with the result, as his now-all-too-common shit-eating grin would reveal, which left Shepard wondering just what he had in mind. While the squad had been allowed to choose their loadout, Garrus had handled the rest, leaving them all stumped as to what to expect once they stepped inside.

In his mind, he loved it. Jumping into unpredictable scenarios had been a terrifying, but exhilirating aspect for him at the zenith of his career. While he never enjoyed putting his life at risk, not knowing what enemy hung around the next corner, ready to pump a slug into his chest and potentially kill him, the adrenaline rush he felt during those situations, added with the additional challenge of adapting to unforeseen circumstances on the run, had been almost euphoric. One man standing alone against an army of ten thousand slavers eager to enslave and murder those he was sworn to protect was one such trial by fire, as had been the many hostage situations, high-profile commando raids and large-scale assaults that dotted the rest of his vocation. They stretched him to his very limit, and he excelled in those situations.

The uncertainty only fueled him. The challenge excited him. He welcomed it. His right leg agreed with him, filled with just as much eager energy as his left one. He gave Tali a warm smile, a reminder that he felt fine...in fact, he felt great. The quarian seemed to notice this and was satisified, urged on by his own display of confidence and iron will. His belief in himself seemed to inspire her, and those around her, and reminded him so much of the old days.

_Was this how they felt? Is this what they meant when they said I inspired others?_

When they entered the room, the program hadn't booted yet: they were able to plainly see the blank walls, lined with the many machines that created the synthetic mirage. Garrus continued to lead the six towards the middle, where he finally stopped and turned to face them, the door to the arena closing with a resounding thud, door's haptic interface turning red. Ashley wore her basic military fatigues, stripped of the Alliance logo, while Churchill stood tall beside her, Tali and Kasumi closest to Shepard. Garrus stood before them, arms crossed as that same grin refused to dissipate.

"Shepard," the turian began, his voice echoing through the chamber like they were within caves, "You told me today that you wanted a challenge. As we speak, the VI is creating that challenge. You wanted a combat scenario, so I programmed one into the computer. However, I've added an additional rule to make things even more interesting...and to perhaps make me laugh a little."

He rolled his eyes mockingly, "You're on the verge of wetting yourself, you bird. You're like a child at Christmas. Come out with it!"

"Now now, don't ruin the build-up," Garrus complained, "First...I give you our first scenario."

Not long after, the spectre called out to the VI to activate the arena, and the projectors roared to life. In a flash, the grey, non-descript interior of the room they stood within had vanished, seemingly teleporting them to a completely different location. All at once, the sextet were hit with a wave of different feelings, all five of their senses impacted by the sudden translocation.

Shepard was at a loss for words. He both recognized the place they were in, and didn't at the same time. For instance, the turian architectural design doctrine was present in all the buildings that surrounded them, and upon closer inspection, they were the portable bunkers that the Hierarchy deployed into combat zones to establish firebases and FOBs, which he had seen in action on Menae during the war. However, that was it for what he could forseeably recognize: the surrounding terrain was a lush rainforest, rich with vegetation, and leaves practically dripping with condensation. The clouds they rolled across the sky were a rusty brown, and the sky itself seemed almost transparent, the form of a giant asteroid easily discernable as it lazily glided through the space above, only partially obscured by the atmosphere. Tight vines covered the rainforest floor in thick blankets, while gigantic tree trunks seemed to almost stretch towards them, the gargantuan trees they belonged to looking like the mighty conifers that once dominated Earth's landscape during the reign of the dinosaurs.

He didn't recognize the world they were on, nor the time period. While the Hierarchy bunkers were obvious, with their banners draped across the sides as if to confirm it, the banners that accompanied them confused the hell out of the soldier, a strange upside-down V-shape belonging to a faction he couldn't associate. Craters littered the ground, with craters potmarking the surface, surrounded by unearthed dirt, blasted vegetation and and what vaguely looked like broken anti-tank obstacles, providing evidence of a battle. The walls of the turian compound were crumbling in areas, and the flaming wreck of an ancient looking turian MBT rested against one particular breach, its entire front eviscerated and the turret bent like a crooked nose.

_Where the fuck is this?_

Garrus seemed to notice his confusion, "Guessed where we are yet? When even?"

"Unification War?" Shepard asked after a while, shrugging as he motioned at the banner, which was beginning to look vaguely familiar for some reason, "I don't recognize the banner, but I assume it belongs to...uh...the Supreme Heptarchy? Alliance of the Four Primarchs?"

The turian was surprised by that, "Uh...no, but nice try. You know your turian history?"

"Most of it," Shepard admitted, "I love history."

"Clearly not enough," Garrus jested.

Shepard simply offered a meek, homely smile in return, "There's a lot of history. I'm going to miss some parts."

"Well, I can tell you this  _isn't_ the Unification War, and that  _isn't_ a turian rebel banner, of any kind," he admitted, turning to Tali, "Although I'd expect Tali to recognize that banner, out of all people."

"Yes," she revealed, "It looks like a modified variation of the Migrant Fleet's insignia. Its the pattern of Clan Rezeh. Jona'Rezeh was the first quarian to reach space, and so all quarian interstellar governments have incorporated that logo into their insignia ever since. But..." then it hit her, and she turned to Garrus with wide eyes, "This isn't-"

"It is," he declared, waving his hands in the air, "If you don't recognize the planet, I don't blame you. Its Rayingri."

Shepard frowned at that, "But Rayingri isn't a garden world, this clearly is. We're in a rainforest...Rayingri doesn't have rainforests."

"Not anymore," he stated simply, pointing above them to the asteroid in orbit, "That asteroid made sure of that. We're at the Fall of Rayingri, then known as Neema. As you can gather by the name, it was a quarian colony world...located right on the edge of Greater Rannoch's territory. Tali's people had a modest garrison here, which got beefed up by the turian military when the Krogan Rebellions began. Right now, in this scenario, the year is 704 CE, only four years into the war. The entire 48th Special Warband is assaulting Rayingri, hoping to capture it and utilize it as a launch point for an invasion and subjugation of the quarians. As you can see above us...this battle was the first ever deployment of asteroids by the krogan. The quarian and turian garrison here, only 2,000 in strength, faced off against the entire warband, which numbered one million men. They were hilariously outnumbered, and as you can see here, they were completely slaughtered."

"So why use the asteroid?" Ashley asked, baffled, "The krogan had won, and had their launch point. Why massacre their own army?"

Garrus shook his head, "These weren't krogan who had the genophage curse afflicted upon them, Ash. At their height, the Tuchankan Empire had a total population of six trillion.  _Six trillion._ One million to us may seem like enormous resources, but to the krogan, it was considered a small garrison. They didn't think twice about sacrificing them...especially when they received false intel that the entire Rannochian Home Fleet was heading their way. False intel the quarians fed to them to save the planet. Well," he turned to Tali, "your people underestimated the krogan. They expected them to withdraw completely, but instead, they obliterated the entire planet. Now nobody could use it."

"Fuck me..." Ash whispered, shocked.

"Genophage doesn't seem like such an atrocity when you consider what we were up against," Garrus pointed out, but after a moment, waved a dismissive hand, "But we're not here for a history lesson...I only chose this place because it offers the most challenge. What's more challenging than a situation where you must defeat your opponent before a giant asteroid smashes into the planet you're on and kills you all?"

"Seems pointless actually," Kasumi dryly complained, not looking at all excited by the potential of the battle ahead.

The turian just huffed, "Well,  _I_ thought it'd be fun. Now, you're all programmed with your own loadouts, but I also thought I'd make things interesting by removing the defenders and attackers, but leaving their weapons and equipment behind. I'm sure Tali would love to see what her people were using back then."

"Learning history in the heat of battle," Shepard smirked, "I like it."

The turian's mandibles clicked, shaking his head, "We'll see about that. I still haven't told you my surprise rule."

"And that would be?"

"This," the turian declared, before turning to the group, "Churchill, Tali, you're with me."

Now  _that_ , he admitted, caught him offguard. Even Tali seemed surprised by it, both of them opening their mouths to object the moment the turian was finished. Garrus simply laughed, cutting them off before they could start to complain, "No buts. Shepard, you wanted a challenge, and I'm giving you one. You and Tali, together, are unstoppable. You're a tactician, she's an engineer...deadly combination. I've seen how you two work, and I know any team I have won't stand a chance against you, so I'm splitting you up. Besides...I get Tali,  _you_  get Kasumi, just to prove I'm not biased."

"Yes, such a virtuous soul," Shepard drawled, still not entirely happy about the decision, but understanding the reasoning behind it.  _Tali and I are a pretty good team...I guess it would be a tad unfair..._

"Well then," Tali replied, her tone oozing sarcasm, the quarian moving to join Garrus and Churchill opposite them, the geth having moved the moment the turian asked for her, having no reason to complain about the arrangement. She placed a hand on Garrus' shoulder, gently holding him there as she looked up at him slyly, "This  _will_ be something I can write about. Garrus Vakarian is afraid of the meek little quarian and what she and her bondmate can do."

"You're not that meek, and we both know it," Garrus returned.

"And don't you forget it,  _bosh'tet_ ," Tali emphasized, removing her hand and turning to face Shepard's team consisting of Kasumi and Ashley, "I have a shotgun too."

"You got me!" Shepard threw up his hands in the air jokingly, shaking his head as he then crossed his arms, appraising his own unit before turning back to Garrus, "But I think you've made a grave mistake taking Tali."

"Oh?" if he had eyebrows, Garrus most certainly would have raised one just then, "And what mistake is that?"

He merely snorted, staring him down, "A good commander never reveals his strategy. What do you think I am, a monloguing villain? I'll just tell you all my plans and get my defeat over with?"

"Fair point," Garrus returned, before turning to speak to the VI again. One shouted command later, and Shepard felt the enormous weight of combat armor suddenly envelop his body, his vision obscured by the tinted visor of a helmet. Perhaps by instinct, he immediately reached behind him and unfolded his favoured geth pulse rifle, a weapon he had named Legion in honor of his late geth friend, and let a hand smooth over the side of it, almost like he was greeting a lost friend. It felt good to be wearing armor again, to be holding a weapon in his hand, to be wielding fate itself. He was in charge again, at the controls of his own destiny, and that made him feel powerful.

Even if it was just a simulation...Commander Shepard was back.

"So how about it, Shepard?" Garrus asked, drawing his friend's attention. Garrus was now clad in his Armiger-class assault armor, blue eyes filled with mirth transmogrified into an iron glare through his fearsome visor, mattock heavy rifle held tightly in one hand. Tali stood poised beside him, shotgun at the ready and in what she called her 'combat suit', suit padded with armoured plates that protected vital areas, while giving her full mobility. Churchill wielded her spitfire, with a Javelin sniper rifle and her own pulse rifle seated nicely on her back. Beside Shepard, Ashley was in her own custom painted armor, rifle at the ready, while Kasumi's hood was now up, her own suit also outfitted with the appropriate body armor, "Ready to dance once more?"

Shepard just glanced at his own compatriots, then at Tali, then back to Garrus again. Oh, he was ready alright. His body tensed like a viper ready to strike, every element of his body crying out at him to destroy whatever foe was put in his path. The demons of war were forming their summit in his mind once more, "I'm always ready for the dance."

Garrus gave the teams time to split from each other and form their own plans for how to defeat the other. Shepard didn't spend much of that time dedicated to a complex plan, and stuck to his personal mantra: the more complex the plan, the more that can go wrong with it. Keep it easy, keep it simple, and the less likely you are to fuck it up, and the easier it is to make a plan B, C and D. So he did just that. Kasumi would run tech and keep Tali at bay, as well as Churchill if she piped in on the technical side, and Shepard and Ashley would handle suppression and support. He usually preferred to go on the attack, but Garrus would definitely be expecting that and plan accordingly. Garrus had spent nearly a week on Omega defending against waves and waves of three powerful mercenary organizations, all by himself. The turian would be in his element...no, Shepard would have to draw him out.

Shepard excelled at attack, Garrus at defense. Time to reverse the odds.

Shepard knew Kasumi had a cloak, which Garrus' squad didn't, but he also knew that Garrus wasn't stupid, and knew full well the tactical advantage that would offer. That meant two things: he didn't care, which was very unlikely, or he had a way to counter it. As such, he would not do what Garrus wanted him to do and have Kasumi attempt a flanking maneveur with it. She would stay put, keeping it until everything else was in place.

Because while his squad didn't have a complex plan, he certainly did in his mind. The less people knew of it, the more of a surprise it would be when he put it into action.

Finally, the time came for battle: Shepard and Garrus announced their mutual preparedness, and the turian activated the scenario. Suddenly, the entire battlefield was pelted with torrential rain, the crouching forms of Shepard's squad quickly becoming knee-deep entrenched in a slodge of mud, dirty water and debris. Water dripped down the front of his visor, but his anti-fog and condensation countermeasures in his helmet made short work of that obstruction. This must have been another of Garrus' surprise additions to the scenario.

_Luckily for us, it'll affect him too._

With all the rain and the subsequent clouds of evaporating water that held closely to the surface of the rainforest floor, Shepard quickly reached the decision to have his team switch to thermals. While one would assume geth were invisible to such devices, the heat that was produced by their numerous systems gave off just enough of a signature that not even their internal cooling mechanisms could hide it. As a result, they would see Churchill coming, even with their thermals active.

Scanning the forward area from where they sat, hidden behind a large slab of broken wall, Shepard searched for movement. He kept his head low and out of sight, knowing that Garrus' expert sniping skill would leave him dead before the battle truly began if he exposed too much of his body. He pondered on the advantage Tali brought to Garrus' unit, and quickly made the decision to deactivate his omni-tool, completely rendering it offline to ensure she couldn't hack it. Left with nothing but the weapon in his hand and his wits, he felt as vulnerable and underequipped as the German soldiers must have been on the Eastern Front during the Seocnd World War. Waiting in the trenches, drenched and freezing to death, waiting for the phantoms of their limitless enemies to charge through the snow to kill them.

He ran through his mind the strategies he figured Garrus would use, and knew that hanging back, finding a good vantage point and keeping Shepard's squad pinned would be the option he would go with: its often what he would have the turian do, and when it came to organized retreats, snipers were excellent at suppression and covering tactical withdrawals. If he wanted to defeat the turian, he would have to lure him out.

In that moment, Shepard turned to Ashley and Kasumi, motioning for them to get close, "Okay, here's what we're going to do..."

* * *

No movement. No gunfire. No heat sigs. Not so much as a whisper. Shepard certainly hadn't missed a beat. He was playing with the turian, and Garrus was sure of it.

The rain pelted Garrus from where he lay at his chosen vantage point, allowing him a perfect view of the entire camp. One of the quarian lookout towers had been hit by krogan missile artillery, the concrete sentinel having collapsed underneath the force of the barrage and partially crumbled. Luckily, it had fallen towards the wall, the latter of which acted as a helping hand in keeping it from fully collapsing, the tower coming to rest ontop of it. While the tower was totally wrecked and out of order, it still had a perfect view of the camp, and the small gap that had emerged from a crack in part of the wall of its topmost floor had provided him a place to rest his rifle, remaining invisible to the naked eye. The thickness of the concrete would also mask his thermal signature, which he had no doubt Shepard would be using. The roof of the tower was gone though, which allowed the rain from outside to fall down around him, soaking him completely.

His tactic had been simple: wait Shepard out. He had known the commander a long time, and while it may have seemed that giving him time to plan was a bad idea, there was another reason for Garrus simply staying put. While there was no doubt he was a brilliant tactician, his nature compelled him to attack. His modus operandi had always been 'attack the enemy before they have time to plan', which was a sound strategy, if not reckless. Shepard had always made it work too: whereas other commanders would potentially crumble under the pressure or lose hope, Shepard was a relentless force to contend with and, frankly, terrifying when motivated. Once he went on the offensive, nothing would stop him until he was dead, which had obviously never eventuated. It would work here as well if it wasn't for the fact that Garrus knew him, how he operated, and his preferred stratagems. He knew the squad he most liked to go in with, what his loadout was, which hand he favoured, the fact he was useless when it came to technology, etc.

It was half the reason he had snatched Tali up the moment he had the chance. His argument wasn't hyperbole: Tali and Shepard, ever since getting together, had been like two a pack of shatha. They were somehow able to read each other's minds it seemed like, knowing what the other wanted them to do without even asking. Her shotgun complimented his rifle like a shield to a sword, and her tech skills, combined with his marksmanship and natural inclination to leadership, ended battles faster than one could blink. And if that wasn't enough, they would die before allowing their significant other to be killed, and while Tali may not seem like much in the physical department, he had seen her do things he never would have associated her as being capable of. Suffice to say, Tali was like Wrex, Ashley, Kasumi, Jack and Shepard if they were all thrown together.

Separating them was step one to making things fair, but it also gave him an upperhand. Tali knew him personally, and more than likely had a hand in helping him upgrade and improve his equipment, giving him an insight into what he had prepared. As long as Tali was in his ballpark, he was all good. Shepard had Kasumi, which balanced it out a bit, but the main thing was keeping Shepard and Tali on opposite sides. He knew the thief had a cloaking device, but he had been with her long enough to notice the telltale disruptions in the air that came with light being reflected, so he wasn't too worried. He also had Churchill on his squad, and he knew how powerful and deadly a geth could be on the battlefield, especially one that was upgraded by Reaper code.

His deployment was basic, but it would be enough to bunker down and wait Shepard out: he was in the collapsed lookout tower keeping an eye on the field, sniper rifle at the ready and his Mattock laying against the nearby wall, ready for him to snatch up the instant he needed it. Tali had, rather cleverly, suggested that she be placed inside one of the bunkers, tucked away behind containers, so she could remain hidden, while also making use of her tech skills and utilizing her shotgun should her position be compromised. As for Churchill...the geth had argued that the less they knew of where she was deployed the better. Garrus had to admit he agreed with that, and let the geth do her thing.

Its as Shepard said: they might be flashlight heads, but the geth were great ambushers.

He knew waiting out Shepard was the best thing to do. As he said, the man preferred to attack. He wasn't adequate at defense, but when it came to attacking, he would be in his element...but Garrus had become a master at defense. He had held his own, with nothing but a sniper rifle and his vindicator, on Omega, against three of the galaxy's most well-equipped, well-trained, determined and powerful mercenary organizations, and slaughtered their ranks to the point where they had been forced to hire extra manpower. A good defender could handle an army of thousands, and while Shepard had performed the magnum opus of defenses on Elysium, he had a knowledge of the terrain, a bucketload of ordnance at his disposal, and the enemy had been forced to come at him up a hill, through narrow, urban chokepoints, which had nullified their massive numbers. All Garrus had on Omega was a bridge and a sniper rifle.

Garrus had the advantage here. He had not only studied this battle in the past, not to mention constructed this scenario from what maps existed on the extranet, but he had the perfect terrain: massive open space, little room to flank, and a clear sight line all the way to the end of the compound on the other side. He held the advantage, and Shepard would figure that out quite soon if he tried to attack. If Kasumi used her cloak, he would know about it. If they tried to flank, Tali would sound the alarm. If Ashley tried to counter snipe...well, she knew she would never win that. And if they tried to strong arm their way through...in the end, Garrus was the one with a geth, and a geth armed with a plasma minigun at that. It was obvious who would end that.

The two forces knew each other's strengths and weaknesses. The challenge came with predicting and countering the use of that information.

Garrus enforced radio silence, only allowing for mission critical intel to be relayed. The aim was to ensure Shepard, if he was listening, couldn't monitor their communications, as the human no doubt believed Garrus would have Tali do. The idea made the turian chuckle: the paranoia of knowing what one would do, and could do, was ultimately leading to them adopting the overall strategy of 'just do the exact opposite of they know you'll do, but don't do that because they're expecting you to do that.'

And on the circular tactics went.

So he waited. And waited. Minutes passed. An hour. After an hour and a half of no activity, Garrus began to get suspicious. He had expected a lull in activity when the match started, knowing full well Shepard would be picking his next move carefully. But he was also incredibly smart, and a connoisseur at battlefield improvization. Just three years ago, the team had entered a bar on the Citadel to get a drink. Short story made short, somebody made an off hand comment about Tali's buttocks, called her a 'slut' for not accepting their advances, and the next thing one knew, Shepard was using a fork,  _a spirits be damned fork_ , to kill about six or so burly looking men. So, really, Garrus had no doubt Shepard would make maximum use of what he had at his disposal, even if it meant running around and strangling them with a tree root. Special forces training had one universal skill that it taught, no matter what species or government: it doesn't matter if you've got a handful of dirt...if you can think of a way to kill something with it, its a weapon.

Spirits though, he didn't normally take this long.

A vine moved, then another. Garrus snapped to it, ready to pull the trigger as soon as someone poked out of it, but relaxed as he watched a rather large, six-legged space beetle rush out from the undergrowth, moving across the field until it disappeared under a pile of leaking canisters. He cursed himself, having remembered to delete the scenario's combatants, but had forgotten to also remove the ambient AI, such as wildlife. Still, he thought nothing of it as he returned to surveying the landscape, making sure he hadn't missed anything during his momentary lapse of concentration. It was a time like this that he really wished he could at least see Tali from where he was, or that he knew where Churchill had holed up...

_For someone who can see everything, I can see very little right now._

More minutes passed by, then a few more. He had been in the process of wondering whether or not Shepard was even going to come out to meet him when he saw a shimmer of light tear through the rain. He blinked for a moment, believing he had merely conjured up the light to give him something to do, but when he saw the flash again, coming from the same direction, he knew he hadn't. The light appeared again, seeming to fluctuate like a sparkle, and seemed to appear at random, confirming it wasn't a reflection of light through his scope. Believing he had caught Shepard or one of his squad members offguard, Garrus took this opportunity, lowered his scope over the target, and pulled the trigger. He knew his bullet would hit true, his marksmanship simply that honed.

That was of no question. But upon seeing the target through the scope itself, he realized his mistake.

What he saw through the scope was not Shepard, Ashley or Kasumi...it was his own reflection. And there, seated ontop of a small sheet of metal, held up by a piece of rebar, was a portable mirror, the same one Shepard said he kept on his person at all times. He had never told the turian exactly why he kept it with him, and Garrus hadn't thought much of it, having chalked it down to another of his human idiosyncrasies. But now he was beginning to wonder whether or not it was simply another of Shepard's tactical secrets that he kept to himself...

His bullet, as predicted, hit the mirror dead center, shattering it and spreading glass across the muddy sheet on the rainforest floor, the bullet punching through, its descent slowed, until finally it dug into the remnants of the concrete wall behind it. Why the mirror was there baffled the turian, and where the flashes had come from escaped him as well, as there was no sun to reflect off of it. The only explanation was that Shepard had been creating the flashes himself, and had ducked away when Garrus opened fire, but what sense would that-?

He realized his mistake quickly, and grabbed his rifle, slotting it on his back. He then leapt from the floor he was on, doing so just as a hail of assault rifle fire hit precisely along the hole he had been peeking out of, a staccato beat that hammered out round after round into the thick wall he had been hiding behind. He probably would have been fine if he simply took cover, but his position had been severely compromised, and he no longer had secrecy on his side. Whoever was firing those shots would have him pinned, allowing Shepard's team to advance with impunity.

_Used that damn mirror to lure me into exposing my position. Clever, Shepard. Damn clever._

However, he had failed to account for Shepard's other trick, one he had not been so quick to notice. And by the time he landed on the third floor, legs crouching to absorb the impact, it was too late to change his course. He turned, coming face to face with a grinning Kasumi, her SMG aimed directly at his face. If she had been perhaps a few more centimeters back, he might have had his barrier to rely on, but she was well within its protective sphere, so it wouldn't be helping him here.

"I admit, the beetle distraction worked better than I thought it would," the thief smirked underneath her hood, cloak unfurling like the physical equivalent, "Got you distracted just enough to sneak past. You never saw me coming, Garbear."

As if the humiliation of this defeat was bad enough, she needed to add that, "Well, I'll admit, you got me good."

Kasumi just giggled as she pulled the trigger, simulated bullets hitting his head and popping upon impact, his name stricken from the leaderboard. He was now out of the match.

_Now I know what Shepard meant by 'taking Tali was a mistake.' He got Kasumi, and a cloak, instead..._

* * *

Tali pulled up her omni-tool as soon as she heard the gunfire, watching as Garrus' name was stricken from the leaderboard. She certainly hadn't expected the turian to be the first to be knocked out of the game, but in truth, she was also glad, because her back was beginning to get cramped from leaning against his wall for over an hour straight.

Even with Garrus down, she didn't break radio silence, just as the turian had instructed. She dimmed the lighting on her omni-tool to stop it from giving her position away, and made sure to up the tint on her mask, to the point where her eyes weren't visible. Despite trying to take the situation seriously however, she couldn't help but find the simulation fun, and was smiling away as she waited for either Shepard, Ashley or Kasumi to move into her crosshairs. While her work as an admiral back on Rannoch was very important to her and her people, the chaos and precision of combat gave her a much needed release of pent up stress and anxiety that she just didn't get from sitting around at home all the time. And while Shepard and Tali's nightly activities definitely left them exhausted by the end of it, it didn't require much thought or concentration.

Even as the rain seemed to flood the entire area outside of her bunker hideout, which she knew wasn't real, Tali was alert. Her ears were listening for sound, eyes seeking movement, nose sniffing for out-of-place stenches. Nothing would escape her notice, and she was looking forward to seeing how her skills in battle held up after so many months of them going unused.

From the looks of it, Shepard was just as excited as her, if not more so. The miraculous recovery of his right leg seemed to light a candle inside of him that had been dim for far too long. She loved him deeply, and to see him in a morose, muted and malcontent state of mind had troubled her over the months. The commander she had gladly fought side by side with had, to her it seemed, died on the London battlefield, the man emerging from the ashes both unfit and unwilling to continue fighting any longer. But the man who had suggested testing their skills once more in an arena, dressed up in combat armor and his entire body working for him instead of against him seemed like a return to form...like Commander Shepard had returned. He was happy, and as a result, this gladdened her. It made her just as energetic, and full of newfound spirit, as it did him.

_He seems so much better now. Like he's found his calling again. Keelah, I wish I could read his mind, to know truly how he's feeling...but right now, I don't want this state of his to end. He feels alive, and I don't want that to be taken from him! From us!_

The gunfire continued as she pondered these thoughts, and she quickly tried to triangulate its origin. Luckily for her, the bunker she had chosen allowed her a peek just behind one crumbling section of the barrier, and it was there, just behind the opposing bunker, that Tali found the form of Ashley Williams, prone and with her rifle against her shoulder, firing intermittent bursts of fire at the tower Garrus had previously been ensconced within, the marine looking completely unaware that Tali was only a few meters from her, just beyond her peripheral sight.

Tali saw an opportunity to make it an eye for an eye. Her team lost Garrus, and now she could claim Ashley. She doubted Garrus had been 'killed' by Ashley's fire, as it seemed to come seconds after she began firing, so that suggested somebody else took him out...most likely Kasumi or Shepard, or even both. Whatever the case was, Tali would have to be quick in eliminating Ashley, or she would join Garrus on the elimination tally.

And she knew just how to do that.

Keeping the human spectre within her line of sight, she opened up her omni-tool and brought up the requisite program that she needed. Knowing she would have to be incredibly quick to make this work, Tali reached down and quietly removed her pistol from its magnetic holster, quickly readying it in her other hand. She had trained to be as accurate with it as possible, so she was hoping that training would pay off in the next few seconds.

She didn't wait any longer. She made her move.

Taking aim with her omni-tool first, she activated the program. Ashley cried out as she felt the full force of the overload that slammed into her, wracking up her entire body, quickly overwhelming her suit's kinetic barrier and shutting it down. Stripped of her first line of defense, the marine was unable to act fast enough, as within a split second of the shield being hit, she raised her pistol with the other hand, took aim at the marine's head, and fired three times.

One hit, two hits...

Ashley's name left the scoreboard.

The quarian engineer didn't waste time celebrating her victory, and knew the sounds of gunfire would quickly expose her position to Shepard and Kasumi. Deciding to make a run for the destroyed armoured tank, Tali holstered her pistol and whipped out her shotgun, darting out from her cover to hopefully reach the tank unnoticed.

"Hello, dear."

She cursed her luck. Shepard had outsmarted her.

She stopped dead in her tracks, turning with her weapon to watch as Shepard emerged from the bushes that separated the bunker she was in from the one beside it. Her eyes widened as she realized he had been hiding a mere meter and a half from where she had been the whole time, having somehow gotten there unnoticed. She chalked this down to his N7 training, and realized that he had probably been hoping that she would expose herself by opening fire on Ashley.

His rifle was aimed at her, eyes downrange, and his leftward stride, which had him circling her, putting himself between her and the tank, made it nearly impossible for her to whip off a quick shot with her heavy, and difficult to aim, shotgun. All she could do was lock eyes with her fiance, his soaking armor and the darkness cast down by the twilit sky making him look like an armoured shadow, his eyes barely visible behind the visor of his airtight helmet. His armor made him look twice as big as he always was, hiding beneath it a modest amount of muscle that was capable of tearing the arms out of the sockets of someone of her build, if he so willed it.

"Hello John," she replied back, rigid and evoking confidence. She wasn't going to back down. She knew Shepard would beat her to the draw if she tried to open fire, so she chose to rely on her tech skills. With one hand on her shotgun, her trigger hand slid down to one of the pockets of her suit, out of his sight.

"Been an interesting scenario thus far," Shepard noted, watching her carefully. If he noticed her other hand, he made no show of it, "Nice stunt you pulled with Ashley. Your trigger finger has really improved."

"Thank you," she replied, "You've gotten better at stealth. I never heard you coming. You usually prefer explosions."

He chuckled at that, "Stealth was never my strong suit, I'll grant you that, Tali. But the situation called for it, and I had to be careful, especially knowing that my brilliant fiance could be waiting around any corner."

"Charms will get you everywhere," she snapped back, finally plucking what she needed from her pocket, with Shepard still none the wiser, "Just not here."

Before Shepard could say anything else, she pulled the hand from her pocket and tossed the object she procured whilst running forward. Chatika sprang forth like an envoy sent by the ancestors, the glowing purple sphere immediately hurling numerous assaults at Shepard within seconds of its deployment. Shepard's aim wavered as the attack surprised him, but she knew he wouldn't remain that way for long, and planned accordingly. Shotgun at hip height, she fired blindly in his direction, the plasma shots so immense and hitting with such force that his barriers spat and coughed in complaint, just barely absorbing the shots, while sending the soldier off balance, keeping him there just long enough for her to close the distance.

What followed was quite possibly the most impossible, most exceedingly humurous, and quite candidly the most shocking display of mock aggression anyone would see that day. Discarding their weapons, knowing they would be useless at that close a range, and with Shepard swatting faux-Chatika out of the air, the simulation simultaneously deleting it from existence, the Lion of Elysium and Tali'Zorah the Conciliator engaged in a trade-by-trade exchange of fisticuffs, fists and blocks whistling through the air as the two fought one another like their life depended upon it, while concurrently boasting large smiles and coughing out amused chuckles everytime one of them landed a hit, or successfully blocked an attack.

Neither of them gave in, not one of them showed signs of defeat. Shepard had superior reflexes and strength due to his cybernetics, but Tali had flexibility, reach and tricks up her sleeve, and every once and a while, Shepard would be slammed with the tickle of an electric pulse, the surprise of an incendiary blast and the chill of a missing cryo blast. Both got exceedingly more and more tired, but they weren't giving up anytime soon.

Finally, Tali landed a kick that sent Shepard flying back a little, and he wheezed out a laugh, shaking his head, "You know Tali...you're much better at this than I remember. Have you always been this good at hand-to-hand?"

She returned his laugh, using the time afforded to them to breathe, their chests mutually expanding and deflating as sweat dripped down their bodies, "I had a good teacher. You might know him, John...I had a  _big_ crush on him. I think he had a crush on me too."

Shepard stood up straighter, laughing, "Really? I'll have to have words with this man. Sort things out."

Tali smirked, advancing back towards him now that they had taken their break, "No need. I'm already fighting the  _bosh'tet_."

"A pity he won't lose."

"Oh, I think he will."

"Well I-"

"Creator Tali'Zorah," a voice came in through her auditory filter. She frowned, stopping dead in her tracks.

"Churchill?" she replied.

"I recommend that you divert to an alternate path."

"Divert? What are you talking about?"

"I believe the organic term for this would be 'duck'. We recommend you 'duck' immediately, Creator Tali'Zorah."

It took mere moments for her to finally realize what the geth meant. Smirking, she ducked to the left, just in time to watch as Shepard looked on in confusion, "What are you doing?"

He got his answer, but not from her. Their eyes turned to the destroyed tank hulk, and watched as a glowing eye where the turret had been suddenly appeared, and below it, a long, multi-barreled weapon extended, aiming straight at Shepard.

The spitfire roared to life, and Shepard's name left the leaderboard. Tali pumped her fist in the air, celebrating their victory, only to frown as she watched her own name struck from the leaderboard. Looking around to see who had killed her, she only had to watch as Churchill's name was removed from the scoreboard as well, a virtually explosion tearing the tank apart, but of course leaving Churchill perfectly okay.

From ontop one of the bunkers, Kasumi decloaked, hands on her hips and grinning at her quarian friend. Tali laughed, patted on the back by Shepard, before they all joined at the center of the map again, acknowledging the end of the match.

The fun was only just beginning.

* * *

Many more matches followed. The scenarios changed, team members swapped around, weapons switched and new variables thrown into the fray. One moment they were on Omega, fighting off Tanculus' rebels during the Battle of Omega, the next they were charging alongside krogan troops as they assaulted the last of the rachni hives of Suen during the Rachni Wars. Each time the rules were changed, new ones added, and their teams morphed. The fun never ceased however, and Shepard never stopped enjoying every single minute of it.

_There was once a time where this was my entire life. One battle after the next. The allies were different, the enemies always different, and the battlefields more unique with each one that passed, but the rules of engagement were always the same. Kill or be killed. Keep your men alive, get them home safe. I like to think I've done a damn good job of that, and these matches here...they're proof I've still got it._

_I've proven today that I'm not broken. That not even a leg injury can keep me down for long. I've still got it, and I'm going nowhere. I may have retired, but now it doesn't seem like I'll be spending that retirement worrying about when I'll have another incident. I'm free._

He didn't know how many more times he would need to repeat it before his mind truly accepted it. The specter of his ailment no longer hung over his head like a stormcloud, freeing him of the chains that came with it. Fighting by his team's side once more, even against imaginary foes, and sometimes even against themselves, was a reward for his perseverence, and he was all the more grateful for it.

The last match quickly drew to a close. Shepard was running, his legs burning not from the sensation of his impairment, but because of the strenuous activity he had been engaged in. Up and up he went, sprinting up the hill, the glowing rays of Macedyn's sun slamming down onto his neck. His helmet was removed, having been damaged beyond repair only a few minutes ago, where he had decidedly dumped it at the base of the sand dune that he was now scaling, feet trying to find traction in the deep mound. Behind him the sound of gunfire continued, explosions tearing up the landscape and the roar of fighters passing overhead bringing with it even more death for those below. War cries sounded, and tanks below blitzed towards their targets, either detonating in blistering conflagrations or returning, in kind, this same gift to their enemies. Shepard had long since forgotten who was fighting who...he was only focused on winning.

Behind him, Tali and Kasumi were not far behind, the former's suit torn and tattered from the fighting she had been engaged in, blue blood drenching and clinching to her black undersuit, her shotgun held tightly in her grip, while the latter was unmaimed, her cloak allowing her to dispatch any hostiles she came across with little to no injury upon her person. Garrus was busy leading a countercharge down below, with Ashley as his lieutenant, while Churchill single-handedly held the right flank against wave after wave of enemy attempts to recapture it.

Shepard was not armed. His rifle rested on his back, as did all his other weapons, and his armor was covered in scrapes, burns, grains of clinging sand and even partial bullet holes. His hair was a mess, and sand caked his beard, to the point where he had to spit some out as it fell into his heaving mouth.

No, what he held was the banner of the Old Empire of Palaven, its purple vexillum gleaming gloriously in the sun. This battle standard was granted to him by Garrus, playing the role of ArchGeneral Drusmius Oraka, so that he may fullfill the turian custom of raising their banner over a captured enemy fortification, in this case the planet of Macedyn, which had declared for the rebel warlord alliance of the Supreme Heptarchy. As it was in open rebellion against the Empire, it would submit or be conquered. Macedyn chose to be conquered, and today, Shepard would soldify its humilation by pulling down the Heptarchy's banner, and placing the Empire's in its place.

At the top of the crest, the battle below was visibile for all to see. Imperial government forces had the Heptarchy's troops in a full rout, their armoured divisions left to roast in the hot sun, whilst their dead littered the field, blue blood soaking the sand. It had been called the 'Battle of Blue Sands' by historians for this very reason, and it marked the beginning of the end for the independence of the turian colonies, as the Old Empire, which had remained neutral in the Unification War for so long, finally took up arms to reclaim its territories. The first phase of the war would be known as the Secessionist War, and the period of the Empire's involvement would be known as the actual Unification War. While the war by no means ended at Macedyn, it would be but one of a long string of victories against its secessionist enemies, and the end result would be complete unification, and the founding of the Turian Hierarchy, or the New Empire in imperialist circles.

This is what Shepard loved about historical simulations. According to history, the honor of raising the standard over their defeated Heptarch foes had been given to Oraka's adjutant, Kavius Corinthus, who would later go on to become ArchGeneral after the Unification War. To know he was in Corinthus' shoes, seeing what she saw, was marvelous. This moment, at least to the turians, was just as revered to them as the raising of the flag on Iwo Jima was to humans. Stylistically, the two events were virtually identical.

And so he did it. The Heptarch banner, a nebula arrayed with the many planets within its dominion, was pulled down and replaced by the Imperial flag: Palaven, held within the grasp of a bloody turian hand, raised triumphant. The banner flapped in the wind proudly, bearing with it the promise of an end to turian colonial squabbling. It was a sight to behold.

Sighing, he turned to Tali as the simulation ended, the sand they stood upon, as well as the battlefield that surrounded them, evaporating like an ocean being drained of water. Finally, they found themselves back in the same empty grey room they had entered, their armor and weapons gone, and the turian soldiers who they had so bravely fought beside seemingly vanishing. The six convened in the middle, where Garrus laughed, slapping their backs.

"Now  _that_ was fun," the turian declared, "Tiring, but fun. I've always liked that battle. A reminder of what my ancestors did to unite the Empire. It was glorious."

"Yeah, it was pretty fun," Shepard returned, grinning from ear to ear. He tried to sound non-committal, but it was hard to hold back the fact that he had a blast. He felt young and powerful again, and the exhaustion he felt had only added to that. Still, he was totally wasted by this point, and his entire body felt like lead weights now due to the amount of battle they had engaged in, "Although I think I'm definitely going to call it quits now."

The entire squad, except for Churchill, was in agreement. While the geth couldn't physically tire, or mentally for that matter, the rest of them weren't mechanically perfect in that regard, and their bodies ached mutually from the exercise they had engaged in.

Still though, Shepard had felt a tad more exhausted than he should have been...quite suspiciously in fact. As they went from battle to battle, he had moments of queasiness, with his vision blurring or his right leg acting up. He had pinned it down to old muscles having not been used in a while, and his blurred vision due to this fatigue. But more and more, the symptoms became apparent, intensifying with each match. By the end, he had felt ready to collapse, his adrenaline having now run down to a trickle of what it had been.

He had ignored the signs, but now they were growing prevalent. The occasional leg wobble, blurred vision, nauseous composure and exceedingly aching muscles. He hadn't wanted to see the signs. In fact, as he said, he had largely ignored them...but the moment the simulation ended, it had felt like this mistake had come crashing down to punish him for his severe lapse in judgment, and the wobble in his legs intensified, although he tried to hide it.

He recalled Garrus saying something, and he could even see his mandibles moving, but he didn't hear the words. Instead, he found himself swaying, his balance seeming to have pulses of dizziness. And then came the worst feeling of them all...

Heat built up in his right leg.

All his happiness, all his hopes, all his exhilration evaporated in an instant. He was no longer smiling. No longer laughing. No longer jumping up and down, filled with so much energy that he didn't know how to dispense with it. His fatigue turned into horror, and in that moment, the full force of his arrogance arrived at the gates of his mind to remind him of a debt he had to pay...and now the battering rams were ready to knock him down.

_No no no no no! Not here! Anywhere, just not here! Shit, no! Fuck!_

He tried his best to hide his deteriorating physical state, but his decline from his apex was becoming far too obvious to hide any longer. He managed to retrieve his loss of balance after a second, but not fast enough to escape Tali's notice, who reached out to grasp his shoulder gently, "John, are you okay?"

"Y-y-yeah," he returned, stuttering, "Just...j-j-ust tired."

His right leg spat defiance at this lie. Instead of dissipating, as he begged it to, it continued to expand. Fire seemed to race down his leg, washing over it like a tsunami storming inland. He was powerless to stop his own body's war against him, and he felt his vision blurring once more as the fire continued, burning a destructive path all throughout his right leg.

By now, it was inevitable. It was happening. The gates had been breached. The enemy were within, and his leg was being sacked. All he could do was watch.

"Skipper, are you sure you're okay?" Ashley asked, his issues now readily apparent to everyone. Even Tali was now moving forward to help him, the look in her eyes of pure concern, "You look pale."

"I'm..." he tried to speak, but it was like even his mind was affected. A swim of thoughts bounced inside his skull, and a headache built there, causing him to groan. He turned to face Tali, trying to speak, trying to warn her of what was coming, but it was useless. He was taking a downward plunge, his body giving up on trying to support itself, and the full weight of his stupidity, arrogance and recklessness were now conspiring to expose his true physical state.

His right leg roared angrily, and he nearly cried out in pain. Instead, he uttered only one word...not a plea for help, but a warning, "Tali, I think I'm-"

His right leg gave out, his balance abandoned him, and he toppled to the ground, the world turning black.

His recovery was a lie. And his body let him know the price of such fallacies.

* * *

" _ **JOHN!**_ "

While the rest of the group didn't know what to do with themselves, Tali acted without a second thought. Reaching forward she grabbed Shepard as he collapsed forward, his eyes staring lifelessly at the ground as the full weight of his body fell into hers. He was heavy, that much was true, but she didn't let go, and allowed herself to slowly, and steadily, lower him to the ground, his legs and arms occasionally twitching, as if jerked in random directions by unseen strings. Tali had seen this before, and she knew what it brought.

The worse was yet to come. She prayed to the ancestors it would come and go quickly.

_Stupid John, stupid! I knew this was a mistake! I should have listened to my instincts, insisted we do something else!_

_But he was having so much fun...he seemed fine..._

_Yeah, well, he's not is he! Now look at him...oh keelah, please let this be over soon..._

Sitting down on the floor, with most of Shepard's body resting her lap, his head tucked just under her neck, she gently turned him over so that he was facing away from her, allowing her to hold him without restraining him. Doctor Stoneman had instructed her on exactly what to do in the event of such an attack, and restraining Shepard would be the worst possible thing she could do. All she could do, helpless as she was right now, was let it play out, and hope it ended quickly. As this had only happened once, or at least once that she knew of, Tali didn't have much experience in dealing with this...so it was just as harrowing as the last time.

The other four witnesses simply watched on in a mixture of confusion, shock and horror. Churchill's expression was impassive, but Garrus, Kasumi and Ashley were as silent as the grave, saying nothing but evoking their emotions with expressions alone, which told Tali enough of what they were thinking. On the brink of tears, she cursed their luck.

_They aren't supposed to know. Shepard made me promise never to tell them...he was even terrified of the idea of this happening in public. He didn't want his friends to see how broken he thought he had become..._

But as the human saying that Kasumi had once told went, 'the cat was now out of the bag'. There was no hiding it any longer, and the true scale of the damage done to Shepard's body was in full swing. At least they knew better than to speak or ask questions, the group choosing to keep their mouths shut, silenced by shock alone. Any of the joy from before that still remained was now completely gone.

Then, finally, the seizure came. The mild twitches from before dissipated, his entire body tensing like a wire, arms and legs becoming pinned to his body, almost as if they were strapped there. His eyes stared off into nothing, his body having completely shut down and rendered unconscious. His teeth clenched down so tightly that Tali could practically feel the tension from where she was, the force so strong that it looked like they'd shatter. Drool spat from his mouth, saliva dribbling down his chin, and his eyelids twitched erratically. Soon, the tension in his arms and legs were let free, and they spun and twirled through the air, looking like he was fighting an invisible enemy. While this was happening, Tali held on, comforting the man she knew couldn't hear her, trapped within his own mind and helpless to control his body, whispering in his ear while running a hand through his hair soothingly, trying her best not to cry infront of her friends.

The seizure lasted minutes, but it seemed like an hour had gone by before Shepard's eyes finally closed, his limbs ceased their movement and the tension in him loosened to the point where she could hold him more tightly. She sniffed, wishing she could wipe the tears that drifted down her cheeks, but instead simply sitting there. Noticing the saliva that had cascaded down his face, she tried to find something to wipe it away with, but let her worry die down as Kasumi came down beside him, using a handkerchief to wipe away the liquid. Tali silently thanked her with a nod, while Kasumi retreated, giving her the space she needed. Without even fully knowing it, the quarian absentmindedly continued to stroke his head, as if coaxing him to sleep.

A minute or two passed before Tali finally had the courage to explain what the group had just seen, her voice low and terrified out of her wits, "Stoneman's syndrome, the doctors call it. Its an extremely rare disease...mostly because Shepard is the only known person in the galaxy to have it, and is the first and only diagnosed case thus far."

The group nodded, Garrus speaking next, "What, uh...what is it? What part of it causes...this?" he motioned to Shepard, knowing that Tali would be aware of what he spoke of. He didn't need to hide it, but she understood his caution. He had rightfully presumed it to be a sensitive topic, and given what he saw, he wasn't about to demand information like an interrogator with his friend unconscious on the floor before them.

Tali laughed bitterly, "His cybernetics, ironically. They were damaged after the Crucible was activated. Some of them were rendered inoperable, others simply damaged. Miranda had to be called in to oversee the surgery that would place replacement and supplementary implants inside his body to keep him alive. But the damage was done...and while some of those cybernetics in his body were all but useless, they couldn't be removed because they were crucial to keeping him alive. So he had to keep them, and hope he didn't die. Which he didn't...but then of course the 'incident' happened, and Doctor Stoneman learned that the cybernetics were so badly damaged, they were now openly rejecting his body. The medical implants kept them 'sedated' as he put it, but if overexerted, or if too much stress was put on the body..." she looked down at the unconscious Shepard, shaking her head, "Seizures are the inevitable result. The stress builds until the cybernetics designed to keep him alive can no longer handle it, and overwhelm the new implants that keep them suppressed. They then reject the body, which causes the seizure. The seizure only ends once the new implants regain control of the body, and subdue the old ones again. Of course...his right leg, being as injured as it is, only makes it worse. The exertion placed on an already damaged ligament...they're two volatile components that don't mix."

Ashley rightfully noticed a discrepancy in that, "But skipper said his right leg was fine. That the pain was gone. I don't get-"

"I don't understand it either," Tali replied, sighing heavily, "But...obviously whatever led him to...believe what he did...was wrong."

"But why didn't you tell us?" Garrus finally asked, exposing the question that the whole group wanted answered but didn't have the courage to utter until the turian finally did, "I knew Shepard was permanently impaired due to the war, but I didn't know it was this bad..."

"You deserved to know. You all did," Tali decided, looking between them all while Shepard, all the while, remained unmoving, unwillingly excluded from the conversation about his condition, "You're our friends, and we didn't keep you out of the dark because we didn't trust you...keelah, I  _wanted_ to tell you. But Shepard made me promise not to."

"That's the part I don't get," Garrus added, shrugging, "Why?"

"Because he was ashamed," she unveiled, holding the secret no longer, "Humiliated that I, anyone, had to see him like that. He didn't like it. So, while he promised me he would never do anything that would cause him to have another of these seizures...I promised him I would never tell anyone else what happened. Unfortunately, it seems like both of those promises were broken today."

No more questions were asked after that. The truth was plain, they knew that, and chastizing Tali wouldn't solve anything. They knew the reasons for why Shepard and Tali didn't tell them, and they would respect those wishes. And while Tali knew they wouldn't go spreading this newfound knowledge, it was clear that now more people knew about his condition than there should be, and her fiance would just have to deal with that when he awoke.

_Stupid idiot...prideful, arrogant fool! You should have just gone home...gone home and never taken part in these matches. Then your secret wouldn't be revealed, and you wouldn't...look like this._

Garrus and Churchill called for an ambulance, which Tali was grateful for, and then proceeded to pick up Shepard between them and carefully and respectfully remove him from the arena. If anybody except the paramedics asked, they'd say he was knocked unconscious as the result of over-the-top roughhousing. They wouldn't tarnish his dignity any further.

All the while, Tali followed behind them, her sadness giving away to anger...anger at him for allowing this to happen, for deliberating going against his doctor's orders and convincing himself he was cured. She cursed his arrogance. His stupidity. His bravado.

She cursed it all.

* * *

 _Huerta Memorial Hospital, The Citadel - January 27, 2188 - Seven and a half hours later_.

He didn't dream. It didn't even seem like he had slept all that long actually, for barely a minute passed before he could feel his body preparing to awaken from whatever slumber he may have had. Before his eyes even pried open however, he could feel the roughness of his throat, the aridness of his oesophagus immediately prompting him to cough raggedly.

His eyes slowly opened, and he blinked rapidly, squinting through the immense light that was bombarding his weak, myopic vision. He quickly recovered thankfully, and pushed through the illumination and, as a result, his vision cleared up along with it, allowing him to finally get a grasp on his surroundings.

Nevertheless, he found himself being drawn to a particular sight that didn't involve surveying the room he was in, as his mind had so instinctively been inclined to do. Instead, he turned to the only other occupant that was in the room, who had apparently taken notice of him as well. The purple veil and black enviro suit immediately confirmed to him who they were, but a cough cut off whatever he had planned to say in greeting, the sensation feeling like he was retching up rocks and dirt.

Tali seemed to recognize what he needed, and reached over to the counter just beside him. Producing a cup, she filled it to the brim with the precious H2O that he required to soothe the aching lining of his throat. Within moments, it was passed onto him, Shepard taking it gratefully before quickly downing the entire cup, the liquid nectar that cleansed that particular pain making it feel like he was drinking from the holy grail itself. Once the final drop had entered his mouth, he had returned the cup to her, his quarian fiance then refilling it and returning it to him for another sip. He chose to savour it this time, taking gentle sips every few seconds instead of gulping it down. He sat back, groaning as his right leg throbbed menacingly.

Ah yes,  _that_ leg.

"How are you feeling?" Tali quietly asked, watching him very closely. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, and her entire posture told him she was both physically and mentally exhausted, wearing herself out in worry and terror. Just the thought of that made his own self-loathing rise to the top again.

Her question got no immediate answer. He couldn't even meet her eyes, feeling like a naughty child who had been found with his hand in the cookie jar and was now being placed under a very close, narrow microscope. Two feelings hit him right then and there, as his thumb ran along the circumference of the cup he was holding: shame and humiliation. Shame at his own stupidity, and humiliation for what his friends had likely witnessed.

For a brief few hours, he had allowed himself to believe that Commander Shepard was above mere hindrances such as permanent limps and injuries. He had been resurrected, so what obstacle could he not overcome? Instead, he had learned the hard way that even men such as himself had limits to what they could do, and defeating nature was not one of them.

His right leg was beyond broken...it was a limb that would carry the scars of his survival for the rest of his life. He had been arrogant and naive to believe he could be cured of that. Doctor Stoneman had said such a recovery could potentially take years, if not decades...perhaps never. And he was stupid enough to believe it was fine after half a year? No matter how good he felt, no matter how much he actually believed he was fine, there was no justification for what he had done. None.

And now he couldn't even bare to look into his fiance's eyes. He was ashamed at what he had done, not just to himself, but to Tali. He had her believing his complacency as well, and when his body saw fit to punish him, she was forced to witness it. He had no idea what thoughts went through her mind right now...disgust? Betrayal? Sadness?

He had broken a promise to her. That day when she walked on him having his first seizure...the sheer panic and trepidation she had been in had nearly broken his heart. Being their first time encountering the issue, neither had known what to do. Doctor Stoneman explicitly told him overexertion and muscle stress had a ninety-two percent probability of triggering another reaction in his cybernetics, which were odds far too high for them to risk. In that moment, in seeing the look in Tali's eyes and her body posture...the pleading expression, the terrified gesticulations...he had promised he would do all in his power to let this...disease...run its course. He wouldn't put himself in a position that could lead to another reaction, and he wouldn't put her in a position of having to witness it ever again. He hated scaring her like that, and he had genuinely wanted to make sure he never saw it in future.

And yet he had failed all the same. Here he was again, in a hospital bed, staring at a terrified quarian and recovering from a seizure. He just  _had_ to tempt fate.

So yes, he had a hard time looking her in the eyes...because  _he_  was at fault here, not her. And what made it all worse was that Tali didn't even get the chance to keep her promise, because this time it hadn't happened in a confined hospital room...it had happened in front of his friends, his squad.

That was the humiliating part. A part of him had wanted to keep this under wraps, with only Tali knowing what happened to him. He wanted his friends to see him for who he had been, not what he was now. He didn't want them to see a man who had seizures simply for exercising a bit too hard. That would lead them to pity him, and he hated being pitied. It made him feel weak. Pathetic. Useless. He didn't want a seizure to be how he was remembered. Commander Shepard, the man who collapsed from one too many push-ups.

But now the secret was out. Garrus, Kasumi, Ashley, Churchill...they all knew. No doubt Tali had given them the full story: no point in keeping it secret now that they witnessed with their own eyes. The Stoneman's syndrome that afflicted him, the  _true_ reason he could never be a marine again...all of it.

Finally, he mustered the strength to look at her, but the shame still weighed him down. His answer wasn't what she expected, "Are you angry with me?"

To his own surprise, she shook her head, "No, I'm not. I wanted to be. I was. Once I knew you were safe and in good hands, I wanted to call you an idiot and every curse word my ancestors bestowed upon my people's lexicon."

He nodded, understanding her fury. He shared it in equal amounts, "So...hit me. Call me names. Tell me 'I told you so'. Yell at me until you're throat is raw. I deserve all of it."

With a sigh, the quarian reached...not to hit him as he had prompted, but to squeeze his hand, moving the chair with her body alone so that she could be sitting right beside him. The silvery orbs behind her mask seemed to analyze him, and in that moment, despite the hospital bed he was situated in and the predicament he wallowed in, he couldn't tear his eyes off of her, "I spoke with the doctor. He consulted Doctor Stoneman once he asked me who oversaw your recovery back on Earth. John, I know you want to beat yourself up over this, but it really isn't your fault. Its your body's."

"What?" he replied incredulously. After a moment, he tried to remove his hand from hers, but she held on tightly, not letting go. Unbelieving of her forgiveness, he continued to frown at her, "Tali, I made a conscious decision to put myself in that position. I defied Stoneman's suggestions, and now I'm-"

Her other hand joined the first, signalling him to stop talking as she explained, "Adrenaline. Hysteria. I know it stands crazy John, but your body temporarly  _forgot_ it was injured. The doctor found trace amounts of the adrenaline and dopamine that caused it. You were never cured, but your body was so hyped up that the pain in your right leg was suppressed, and thus the effects of the cybernetic rejection were merely delayed, not stopped. Once the adrenaline ran out and you calmed down...the rejection kicked in. Doctor Kirk thinks you got lucky: the reaction should have been much worse, but you got off with a minor reaction."

Once he realized what she was saying, Shepard felt himself calming down, his expression softening.

_All that positive energy that was flowing through me from the moment I woke up...that's what was making me feel better. The whole time, my right leg was burning and only the adrenaline kept me going. A pain suppressor._

He still didn't feel fully redeemed, but this new information would have to do in terms of vindication. In the end, he had still chosen to believe he was cured. He should have checked with Doctor Stoneman first, made sure he was actually medically fit! His own hubris had led him to believe he was truly recuperated, and that mistake would now haunt him forever.

Which brought him to what he knew he would have to ask next. Gulping, followed by a sigh after he finished his drink, placing the cup back down on the counter, he turned back to her. He winced slightly from the dull ache that was left behind in his right leg, but felt better once he was seated straight again, "Tali...the others...how much did they see?"

The quarian was silent for a moment, which told him all he needed to know. Her answer was unnecessary, her momentary hesitation more than condemning enough, "All of it. I told them what it was, John. I had no choice. I didn't see much of a reason to keep it secret now that they knew, and they deserved to know."

"They did," he replied minutely, his head hanging back and looking tightly at the ceiling. He imagined the look on Garrus' face, on Ashley's and Kasumi's. What they thought, what they would say...no doubt a non-stop array of pity condolences and sympathetic looks: the very things he had hoped to avoid. He wanted them to see him as an equal, and to treat him as they would another member of the crew, but now they would forever see and treat him as the fragile soldier who could fall apart if he jogged a bit too long. No matter how hard they tried to, it was inevitable. Knowledge was like a cancer: you could try and suppress it, but it would always be there, nagging at you.

Tali wasn't about to let him woefully collapse into self-regret however, "But they promised they won't tell another living soul. Only the paramedics and the doctor who treated you even know what happened to you: those who saw you being rushed to the ambulance think you were injured during the arena fight. Garrus, Kasumi, Churchill, Ash...they won't tell the crew, they won't even tell our friends. You know they won't."

That part did cause something of a smile to rise out of him. While he still wasn't happy about the fact that more than one person now knew about his condition, the one thing he was positively sure about was the loyalty of his friends. When they made promises, they kept them. He knew that no matter how pressed they were for that information, they would not break until he permitted it, and even then, he knew they would have the self-determination to keep it secret regardless, believing it the honorable thing to do. So when they promised to never tell another living soul, he believed them without a skeptical thought in his mind. And while it hurt him to know he would have to deal with their pity for a while, he was gradually coming to accept that it had been an inevitable.

The larger the secret, the harder it is to keep it that way. And a condition such as this was always going to be impossible to keep under lock and key. Perhaps he had been foolish to think it would remain that way. Whatever the case, the cat was out of the bag now, and there was no going back. He would just have to roll with it.

He squeezed her hand back, and turned to face her, a small tug of a smile cornering his mouth, "I trust them, I just wish they didn't have to be in that situation."

"So what now?" she asked.

He exhaled, turning to look out through the window on the right side of his room. Even if it weren't for the magnificent view of the Presidium lake down below, the Citadel's central ring stretching out the cityscape beyond his view, but still unable to hide the greenery and the serenity that the capital of galactic government so desperately wanted to represent their way of life, he would have been able to figure out which hospital he was at. Huerta Memorial was the only major hospital on the station, and if that wasn't enough, it was the closest one to the Silversun strip. It had made sense for him to be taken there. Still, he was thankful to be given a room with a view like this, as the soundproof walls allowed him to watch the traffic glide by like they were in a oxygen-less vacuum, the sight strangely tranquil and relaxing. It was a view designed for lamentations and deep rumination.

But he knew this kind of view wasn't for him. There was only one place in this galaxy right now that offered him even a semblance of bliss, and he missed it dearly. That hotel he had rented during their stay wasn't home. Not even the  _Normandy_ was home anymore.

His only home was on Rannoch. And he yearned to return.

Tearing his gaze from the window, he turned back to her, that same unsure smile still haunting his lips, "My job here is done. There's nothing left for us on the Citadel...I've condemned the Shepardists, and completed my side of the bargain. I want for us to go home. Tali, after I'm cleared from here, I think we should return to Rannoch."

"Are you sure?" she asked immediately. He knew what she wanted was the same as what he did, but her question was more out of concern for his interest than hers. Her selflessness never ended, and he didn't want it to go anywhere. It was one of her most endearing qualities, "We can stay a few more days if you-"

He shook his head, "There's nothing of interest for me here. I left the Citadel with no unfinished business. My life is with you on Rannoch, so that's where I belong. What fun we've had here today I will cherish, but at the end of the day, that's all it was going to be...a day of fun. Now I want us to return home so we can finally start building a proper life together."

Tali nodded, squeezing his hand again with reassurance, "The doctor said you'll be good to leave in a few days, he just needs to run a few more tests to make sure you're alright. You'll need to use crutches for a few more days after that until your right leg is okay to support itself again."

"Yes, dear," he returned with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

She scoffed, reaching over to get him another cup of water, "Don't give me that look. By crutches, I mean actual ones...not me."

"But you're so much more comfortable," he added.

"Hmmm-hmmm..." she offered back.

He laughed a little...it was a desperate sound, not at all indicative of an amused mental state. But it would have to do in soothing his conscience until he could escape the suffocating grip of the Citadel's bureaucratic hive mind. His final mission was complete, and now he could rest. He would leave the Citadel, and hopefully only return when he felt like it.

Rannoch was his home now. And the only mission he had left was to live in bloody peace.

If he could achieve the impossible, he could at least achieve that.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**About damn time, heh? Well, I just managed to get this chapter in before the end of May, so I can at least pat myself on the back for that. As promised, this chapter had more plot to go with it. Next chapter will be even better, and will introduce some new players into the game we haven't met yet. I think you'll enjoy them.** _

_**Well, next up are Flashpoint prompts 19 and 20, then I'll do Chapter 13. I'm going to take two days break before I start those prompts however, so don't go expecting them anytime soon.** _

_**Until then,** _

_**Keelah Se'lai, troopers!** _

_**Also, the typical (and expected) music suggestions:** _

**Jenna's Revelation: "Not Another Word" by Thomas Newman from the film** _**Brothers**_ **.**

 **Shepard Having Fun: "Not Their Fight" by David Holmes from the film** _**Ocean's Thirteen.** _

**Battle Arena: "Battle Ready Busters" by Shane Blair from the Halo 4 machinima** _**Odd Men Out - Season 2.** _

**Back in a Hospital: "Winter Is Here" by Ramin Djawadi from the TV series** _**Game of Thrones.** _


	14. Sisyphean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard and Tali find a way to move forward. The Samaritan forms a bold team for a bold mission.

" _You can't ever be your heroes, but you can love their gifts._ " - John Piper.

* * *

 _Shepard Residence, Rannoch - February 3, 2188 - A week later_.

His memory of the past few weeks seemed like it went by in a rush, reminiscent almost of the fleeting passage of time. Just like memories of one's earlier years, his recollection of the shitshow these last few weeks had seemed too vague to focus upon. Bits and pieces were yielded to him, but only enough to spark more questions. One could remember places as a child, but not enough to know more. It was the torment of remembering only enough to keep you guessing, but nowhere near enough to satisfy one's curiosity, of which the human mind was a constant victim.

That's what the past few weeks felt like to him: distant, vague flashes of a past he was no longer beholden to. It might have seemed to others that he was suffering from some sort of amnesia, brought on by the stress of the situation itself or his refusal to further participate in the anxiety it brought to him. If he was to be taken literally, the same would be true. But he wasn't being literal: he could remember every single detail of those events if he wished to.

But he didn't. There was nothing of that time worth remembering, outside of the brief stints of joy and fun he had been lucky enough to dive into with his quarian fiance. What had brought him to the Citadel, what had come to pass on that station...they weren't times he associated jubilation with. The damnation that followed him like a pestilence was all that had waited for him there, hanging over him like a dark cloud, and when disaster had struck, it hit him with the force of a mass accelerator slug. Even the fun he found with his soon-to-be wife had been a product of that same damnation: a strategy of deception his own body had used against him in an effort to undermine his own constitution. It was a war Shepard was ill-prepared to fight. A battle he had no means at his disposal in which to defeat.

And so Shepard was defeated, thoroughly. He returned home, beaten, and vowed to never expose himself like that again. The humiliation of it  _still_  stung, even a week after the fact...like an unhealed scab that was constantly being reopened, again and again.

Even now, his face buried deep in Tali's neck, he found his focus elsewhere, thoughts of his earlier predicament no longer relevant in his mind. Hot water poured down his naked back, surrounding him in a shield of warmth and stinging his skin upon contact.

Beyond the confines of the cubicle, it would seem to anyone that nothing beyond a simple shower was taking place. The usually transparent glass panels were fogged up to the point of being opaque, the shower continuing to rain water down upon its user, door closed and sealing off the outside world while steam, blanketing the bathroom in a thick mist, continued to choke the air due to the lack of an outlet for escape, adding further to the warmth inside. Condensation ran down the interior of the unit, and aside from the occasional shift of movement within, nothing out of the ordinary expose itself.

Then a hand shot out, impacting the glass hard enough to cause it to vibrate, but not enough to shatter, or even crack. The light grey skin tone of the hand, and the fact it only had three-fingers as opposed to five, was evidence that the cubicle had more than one occupant...and they were doing more than just showering. A moment later, a grunt could be heard...followed by a distinctly feminine moan of pleasure.

Inside, Shepard and Tali were wrapped in a passionate embrace, his strong arms wrapped under her legs and holding her up off the ground, his body pinning her against the shower wall. In turn, her legs were tightly straddling his waist, locked around in an X-shape on the other side, like a bolt securing a door. Her arms were thrown around his neck, the cute sounds leaving her mouth making it more and more difficult for him to keep it together. Her black hair was a soggy mess, locks hanging down infront of her face, where they largely went ignored, the quarian simply too deep in the throes of her own satisfaction to be bothered trying to fix it.

Shepard, for his part, wouldn't stop. His tempo increased as they approached the end, the impacts of his thrusting causing Tali's body to slide up and down the wall in rhythm to him pushing forward. He had leaned down into the nape of her neck, kissing her throat while Tali nibbled at his ear. Knowing they were both nearing their mutual apotheosis, he pulled up his head and leaned it up against Tali's, their two faces so close they could feel each other's breath on the other's skin. Neither of them said a word, the knowledge of what was coming all too obvious to both of them. Her eyes half-lidded, drunk on ecstasy, the quarian leaned forward and locked her lips to his, her tongue quickly pushing for entry. He had no intention of denying her, and soon their heads were turning back and forth, noses brushing against one another as they kissed with all the desperation of two lovers who might as well have believed they were going to die tomorrow.

He bucked one last time, grunting loudly and elongatingly, pushing up against Tali. They broke apart, Tali's back arching and fingers digging into the skin of his back, while Shepard finally allowed his floodgates to open as he felt Tali tense up. Her breasts squished against his chest, the two let out a series of mini-grunts as they both achieved release, until finally their bodies relaxed. They remained where they were for a moment, Shepard allowing his fiance to stand again as he gently released her legs. Her arms didn't move however, their foreheads pressed against one another, eyes closed, as they took the moment to just...breathe.

The shower continued, the water given no indication that its circulation should be discontinued as the lovemaking within its domain concluded.

Finally, Tali spoke up, eyes opening just enough to lock with his, her tone low and wispy, "We should probably get out now. We're wasting water."

He nodded quietly, reaching one arm over to switch off the water, the single tap of the interface immediately causing the system to shut off the supply, reducing it down to a steady drip, which would soon cease as well. He turned back to Tali after that, reaching down slowly to kiss her again. Soon, the two were embraced again, hands running through each other's hair as their mouths remained to duel.

After a second, Tali pulled away, laughing. Frowning, he looked down at her, not sure he understood the joke he must have unintentionally told, "What's so funny?"

"Your beard," she giggled, reaching up to run a hand through the prickly bush. He wanted to close his eyes at the sensation, the softness of her gentle caress feeling like a brush stroke, "It tickles when we kiss."

That  _did_ cause him to grin, and he laughed right along with her at the absurdity of the comment. Once they had composed himself, he ran a hand through it himself, finding it had grown much longer than he had been aware of.

_Time flies and my beard gets longer. I really should stay in control of this. And if Tali doesn't like it...well, all the more reason to cut it back._

If he had still been in the military, keeping it within regulation standards would have been a no brainer, and he wouldn't even have to think about it. But now that he had gotten a taste for the world outside of military service...he had found it difficult to maintain consistency in his former routines and rituals, and even making his damn bed (something that Tali had enforced once she moved into his cabin, the clean environments her people lived in leading to an equally clean mindset in regards to tidiness) had been something he needed to get back into. His beard, as it was now, had  _far_ exceeded Alliance regulations, and if any of his COs had caught him with this...well, the reprimand he'd have gotten for it would be enough to keep him from allowing it to happen again.

_Gunny Ellison...he'd have my face in the mud and have me running zero-G laps around the base if he ever caught me looking like this._

Giving himself some time to ponder, he nodded, holding her by the arms, their naked bodies by now beginning to chill as the source keeping them warm had been deactivated, "I'll shave it if you don't like it."

"No!" she surprised him with the surprise in her voice, almost as if that  _hadn't_ been what she was leading up to. What she said next confirmed this, "I...I actually sort've like it. Quarian men don't grow beards so...um...its different. Alien. And I like it."

He raised an eyebrow inquisitively at her, making sure she knew he was joking, "Oh? And how do you know quarian men don't grow beards? Should I be worried?"

She hit him on the chest, the chill in the room causing her to press further against him, almost like she was trying to siphon the very heat from his body to warm hers. He was welcome for it as well, as her own heat fought off the cold leeching into him as well. Her head lay against his chest, allowing her to respond, "Sexual education, you  _bosh'tet_. You know that."

"Okay then," he adopted a more serious tone, lowering himself so he could press his lips to her scalp, breathing in the exotic, leathery smell of her freshly cleaned hair. There was also the slight tinge of antiseptic hanging in the air that seemed to slightly burn his nostrils, but he knew that was simply an after effect of the decon unit sweeping the house, which allowed Tali to be as exposed as she was, "The beard stays. But from now on...I'm not letting it get any longer. I might end up looking like Ned Kelly."

"Ned who?" Tali asked.

"Never mind," he returned, knowing the reference was lost on her.

With a harsh sigh, the quarian leaned up to kiss him. It lasted but a second, but he cherished every single one, knowing how few and far between they would be...at least for a few more years, "I should get back into my suit, and you should get dressed...its freezing in here."

"Sure," he replied, just as dejected as she was. The cruelty of Tali being able to finaly leave her suit was that it only reminded her of how much of a prison it truly was. Quarian immune systems necessitated their use, and both of them knew that it keeping her alive was more important than their ability to kiss or make love, but that didn't stop it from hurting. But to Shepard, it was also a gift. It meant that he would make sure to treat every moment she gets outside of the suit as special, and that no time of it shall be wasted. And as Tali's immune system improved, her exposure to him allowing her to build up an immunity to his germs and bacteria, the more of it they got to spend. The house's decon system only added to this: but while it allowed Tali to be free of her suit for longer periods, she still couldn't leave the house without the suit.

Not for a while, anyway.

He let his hand slide down to cup her cheek. He loved seeing her face, knowing how beautiful she was. Their first time together had been shrouded in uncertainty for both of them, for differing reasons. Tali was afraid she wouldn't be physically attractive to Shepard, and he was afraid of her dying just by removing her mask. Both worries were alleviated that night, for Tali was quite possibly the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen or been with, and she most certainly lived, albeit with a bad fever and a significantly boosted self-esteem.

He never wanted her to put that mask back on...not when she didn't have to. But he knew that, for now, it would have to be. If it meant she was safe from harm, that's all that mattered to him, "One day, Tali. One day."

"I know," she replied with a note of wistful yearning, kissing one last time before cleaning themselves up and putting their clothing back on.

The process was a short one, and within just a few minutes Tali was slipping her arms into the suit, sealing up the torso section as she turned to Shepard, who was now pulling a basic shirt over himself, "You know...its still only just morning. The sun is still rising...if we're quick, we can have breakfast  _and_ watch the sun come up."

She wasn't wrong. Even now, as Shepard hit the control panel to open the door, steam spilling out into their bedroom, he could see the radiant rays of the sun beginning to creep through the curtains into the room proper. Watching the sun rise up was a magnificent sight, one he had been deprived of during his childhood due to being a spacer, which was yet another thing he shared with Tali. Both of them were born on starships, and lived out their childhoods within the confines of spacefaring vessels: they never got to experience the pleasures that surface-born children got to experience, and unwittingly took for granted.

As he spoke, the warmth from the peeking rays replaced that of the shower he had turned off minutes before, and immediately sealed his decision as he turned back to Tali, the quarian having now sealed up most of her suit and was now in the process of putting her helmet back on, the entire exercise of filtering her long hair through a metal ring at the back probably the most painful and arduous of the entire activity, "That sounds nice, actually."

He got one last look of her smiling before her mask slipped back over her face, locking into place with a hiss. Her lightly glowing eyes seemed to transform into glowing orbs upon placing the smoky glass over her face, the only feature from within that remained visible to him once her suit was on. Immediately, her eyes turned into slits: an indication of the smile that was concealed, "Good! We can have it on the back porch!"

Both fully clothed, Tali stepped forward ever so slightly, hands sliding up to land on his shoulders. When she spoke again, her tone was much softer, one she adopted often knowing full well the effect it had on him. It was a soft, gentle voice that was only used between them during intimate moments of privacy, "I'll even make breakfast for you..."

He forced himself to smile at that, not wanting to disappoint or dissuade her from doing so she obviously wanted to do. There were many things he loved about Tali...her engineering skills, soft touch, selfless demeanour, her altruistic values, and so much else. But her cooking...left much to be desired. With their new lives of rather ordinary family life ahead of them, many changes occurred to their schedules, as well as their duties. Shepard wasn't the only one affected after all, and while Tali was still an admiral, her duties had home were vastly different to what she had on the  _Normandy_. With no engineering under her charge, she was left to pick up other commands...and she had taken a strange fixation with the kitchen.

There had been many times he had offered to cook for both of them, and Tali had taken over, insisting on improving her cooking skills. For whatever reason, she had made it her personal mission to cook for them both, trying her best to avoid nutrient paste whenever possible in favor of making proper meals. It was an admirable effort, even if he didn't understand the drive behind it, but being the subject of her training in the culinary practices made it difficult to keep his dissatisfaction secret. He put on an act to keep her happy, but let's just say her version of levo pancakes were...how did one put it?

That's right...the love of his life had butchered one of his favourite breakfast meals. So the idea of her making breakfast for him wasn't something he was overly excited for. But he didn't have the heart to tell her that. Truthfully, it might allow him to put his mind on other things, so he put on his best smile and pretended to adore the idea, "I look forward to it. I'll wait for you on the porch...give you room to work."

She nodded, and the two left the room together as they left the room, heading downstairs towards the kitchen. He had been told he would need crutches to walk for a while, but thankfully that hadn't come to pass, and his mobility had quickly returned to what it had been prior to his episode on the Citadel, albeit with the same old limp. Tali immediately got to work, crouching down to pick out the pots, pans and other utensils she would need to conduct her cookery. With a small smile, he quickly brought himself to the fridge and chose a drink, eventually settling with a simple beer. Normally having alcohol this early in the day wouldn't be on his itinerary, but at that moment, he simply felt like one. Perhaps to help drift his thoughts further.

_Yes, a beer will help._

Popping the cap, he took a quick sip and felt immediate relief sifting down his throat from the beverage. Smacking his lips, he turned back to Tali, snaking an arm around her waist to quickly kiss her on the side of her helmet, "I'll meet you out back, dear."

Immediately after that, his stomach grumbled...quite loudly, in fact. Tali giggled, not turning from her work as a hiss emanated from the stove, "I'll try not to take too long, John. I'm afraid of what your stomach will do if I'm too slow."

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he made to leave the kitchen, heading to the back porch as he stole another sip, "I'll be  _forever_  grateful, believe me."

A few strides later, and the door was pushed open as he arrived at the back of the house, beer in one hand, other holding open the door as he stepped through it. The wooden floor creaked with his passage, the smell of chiseled timber still fresh. He sighed as he sought out the nearest chair and gently guided himself into it, placing his bottle within the slot on the left armrest. He allowed himself to relax, muscles loosening up and body leaning back against the wall.

From his seat on the porch, he allowed himself to drink in the view before him...the same view he had enjoyed every single morning since building this house. The warm sun rising above the oceanic horizon, casting away the remnant shadows of the night. In the ancient times, prior to the evolution of quarian civilization, that very sun signalled that the danger of tenebrosity had departed, and that it was now safe to leave their chosen shelter. Even today, the sun represented just that sort of salvation, albeit not from the nocturnal creatures that roamed the plains, but instead from one's own neighbours.

_Much easier to commit crime out of plain sight. Luckily, we won't find much of that on Rannoch. Not for a while._

As he lounged in his chair, metaphorically kicking up his feet, nursing a beer, he was quickly joined by the pitter patter of four feet advancing towards him on the porch. He didn't need to turn and address the newcomer, already knowing that such a sound could only belong to his varren pet. Urz was beside him in moments, Shepard taking a second to reach down and scratch underneath his chin, just where the varren liked it. Barking happily, Urz knelt down by his owner's side, curling up and lying down beside Shepard's chair. He chuckled, amused by just how similar varren behaved to Earth's own canine companions. It seemed even space dogs were man's best friend.

With Urz by his side, and the smell of Tali's cooking beginning to waft in from the house and spilling out onto the porch, he sighed happily and felt his eyes begin to close in contentness. His guard fell, and with it, most of his focus as well. He simply allowed his thoughts to drift, and that was when he remembered.

It had been a week to the day since he had last been on the Citadel, and yet the events of that day still filled him with regret. If there was anything he could have changed, without a shred of doubt, it would be taking back what he did. The stupidity of his own decisions...of choosing to believe he had been cured. To think he had so easily cheated his own injuries. If he hadn't fallen for such an obvious ruse of the body, he wouldn't have encountered a second incident...he wouldn't have had that seizure, and his friends wouldn't have bore witness to the secret he had tried so desperately to keep under wraps. A secret that was now out in the open, resulting in his own humiliation. It was a bitter pill to have to swallow, but swallow it he would...for he had little choice in the matter. He could hardly change history. What's done was done, and he'd have to live with it.

Tali had assured him of such. And to the credit of his friends, they didn't bring it up once...not when they visited him at the hospital, not on the ride back to Rannoch, and not when they said goodbye. He had no idea what Tali had said to them, but they had absolutely refused to even bring the topic up, or show him an iota of sympathy. He surmized the quarian had cautioned them against it, knowing how much he loathed it. It was bad enough they had to know...having it rubbed in would only make it worse. And so they remained silent on the issue, much to his gratitude.

He had spent a couple days in hospital before he was finally allowed to leave. They boarded the  _Normandy_ , and returned to Rannoch. Upon arrival, Garrus announced that he had requested leave for the  _Normandy_ to remain on Rannoch for no longer than a week and a half, knowing that the wedding would take place soon and wanting the crew to be present for it. And so the  _Normandy_ remained in orbit, while Shepard and Tali returned to their home, and two days later...here he sat.

But despite how close his wedding was...the joyous and highly anticipated event that it was...it still did not allow him to forget what had happened. That would be burned in his memory for a long time. Tali told him she had already forgiven him...but that wasn't good enough. He promised not to let this happen again, and he had broken that promise without even taking into consideration the possibility. He had allowed himself to grow over confident, and in that complacency, he had been punished.

It was the beer in his hand, the woman he loved inside, and the house he resided in that he sought new focus. A way to move on past his inhibitions...to make them hindrances no more. Yes, he would have a permanent limp...yes, he wouldn't be a soldier ever again...but that's why he needed to persevere and seek new occupations. That would be his mission from now on, not to mention making sure both him and Tali lived happily. Not to mention also being left alone, which the Citadel Address was an excellent step towards securing.

His eyes remained closed, the moment that allowed him to discard his tangent thoughts having now escaped him. He was in too deep now, and not even the grumbling of his stomach could keep him rooted in the past any longer. One last memory took hold in his mind, rooting there and quickly growing. One last vestige of his past, holding him down. He chose to face it.

And so it  _all_  came rushing back, for the final time.

The first incident.

* * *

 _Royal London Hospital, England, Earth - May 17, 2187 - Two weeks before Shepard's departure from Earth_.

_Two weeks. Freedom was as close as the four walls that surrounded him. He could practically taste it in the air. And to think he had been stuck in this hospital for nearly seven months...over half a year. The galaxy at large had been in the process of moving on...while he was still too busy recovering to be able to effectively do so._

_The last six and a half months had been gruelling, tiresome affairs...but he had made it. It had taken every last ounce of his patience and the straining of his own self-discipline, but he had done it for his own sake, for Tali's, and for those that waited on him to get back up. They wanted to see him dust himself off and get back to work...and while he couldn't deliver that, he could promise to return to living...to show the Reapers the true extent of their defeat. They had failed to destroy them. Failed to steal their resolve, their will to live, their commitment to the struggle. They had failed, they had lost, and now they were no more. Their 'supreme' existences, their supposedly immortal carcasses...left motionless and dead. Ready to be disposed of._

_That's how he convinced himself to hold on. That impatience would achieve nothing. Tomorrow would still be there, and the Reapers would still be dead months beyond the fact. They couldn't and wouldn't return, and if any new threats arose, he certainly couldn't do anything about them by delaying his own healing process. The fact of the matter was that he needed time to properly get back on his feet. Rushing his way through it would help no one, especially not himself._

_Besides, he found that the less he thought about it...the faster the time went by. It was a lesson his late mother had taught him, and it still stuck with him to this day. Lingering on one's own shitty predicament wouldn't help it end sooner, so he decided not to let it dominate his thoughts._

_Instead, he put all his efforts into his physical therapy. Even if he could never be a marine again, he would do all he could to retain at least most of his physical capabilities. He refused to allow himself to get lazy. That wouldn't do. He would exercise until he was blue in the face...but at least it would keep him from atrophying any further. That's how he saw it, and with Tali and Doctor Stoneman in full agreement, he saw no reason_ _**not** _ _to remain fully committed to this task._

_And luckily for him...his patience had paid off. Within two weeks, his physical therapy would not only be over...but he would be fit to leave this damn place. And the sooner he got out of this hospital, and started his new life with Tali, the happier he would be and the more stable his mental faculties. After all, staying in the same room, day after day, now for almost seven months, was bound to send anyone else insane. Even having someone to talk to wouldn't be enough to help someone ignore the fact that they were effectively trapped inside the same, barren white walls. Their features never changed. Nothing new switched it up, and most of all, it caused mental degradation because it reduced the amount of new visual and other sensual stimuli being supplied to the brain._

_He might as well have morphed into a hermit, and he didn't like it one bit. Soon it would end however, and he could finally breathe in some fresh air and take a walk without some doctor following him around and watching every single muscle twitch on his body. Being analyzed under a microscope like some insect. The thought of it alone made his head twinge in frustration. He hated being psychoanalyzed by psychologists, and he hated being poked at by doctors like a lab rat. It left him feeling caged._

_God, he couldn't wait for this to end._

_But...if there was one person who had made it worth his while, it was Tali. Promises of what the future would hold. When he wasn't exercising or being tested on, he would spend lunch or dinner with Tali going over the plans for their house; what would go where, what rooms would contain, what the decorations would be, what size vidscreen they'd purchase...all of it. Tali had unwittingly given him, each night, more and more motivation to continue. To suppress his frustrations and get on with it._

_Her vision of their future together was a pot of gold waiting at the edge of the rainbow. And he was so damn close to reaching out and claiming it. He need only walk a little bit further and he would be there._

_This was all for her, after all. He wouldn't even be alive right now if it wasn't for his stubborn refusal to die and leave her all alone. They looked out for each other at the best and worst of times. He helped her during her trial for treason, and she was there for him every night as he remembered the losses they suffered during the war. He had almost died on the Citadel, but Tali had never given up. She found him, and it was thanks to her that he was still breathing. He owed her his life._

_She deserved all the happiness he could provide, and once he got out of this glorified cell, he would do just that. Just a couple more weeks of work lay ahead of him. Be damned if he allowed it to hold him down, or demoralize him. He was going to push through, and that was that._

_It was currently twelve in the afternoon, and a chilly English breeze was wafting in through the open window to chill the room. He had been exercising his legs and arms for two hours now, and he had finally chosen to take a break, claiming generous sips from his provided water bottle as he limped his way over to the window. Tali was downstairs collecting breakfast for both of them, and would be joining him pretty soon. He wouldn't mind something to eat before he got right back to it._

_As predicted, his entire body ached from the series of stretches and other exercises he had been conducting as part of his therapeutical regimen. They left him wanting to collapse afterward, but as his DPT had insisted, this was a good sign: his muscles were simply being forced to maintain usage again. Spending months bedridden had done them no favors, and the therapy was simply a way of forcing them to learn to work again. It was a work in progress, but one he was assured was nearing completion._

_Upon reaching the window, he looked down into the streets below, and then out and around the surrounding city. The Royal London Hospital was located smack dab in the middle of the Whitechapel district, and from where he stood he could see the remains of what had been the 'more recent' section of the hospital building: reduced to ruins after a Reaper destroyer had collapsed ontop of it, which had since been removed. The removal of the Reaper, and the building it had crushed beneath its enormous bulk, had freed up the skyline for Shepard to see, and if he looked far enough, he just see the outline of the Beamfrom where it stood in Hyde Park, now inactive, which was barely an hour and forty minutes' walk from where he stood._

_Turning left, he could also see the Tower of London, half an hour to his north-west, which was a great medieval fortress that had stood tall for hundreds upon hundreds of years, and would apparently remain standing, as the Reaper War had seen fit to barely touch upon it. The history of that tower was a dark one, having gained quite the reputation as a place where the British monarchy sent seditionists, spies and other undesirables to be tortured or simply disappear. Even Queen Elizabeth I, before she became queen, spent time as a prisoner within that very tower before her reign, and during the Second World War, captured German spies were taken to that Tower to be interrogated. But despite its history...it had withstood the tests of time. It survived the bombing raids of WWI and WWII, it survived the world conflicts and terrorist attacks of the mid-to-late 21st and early 22nd centuries, and it had intransigently stood against even the Reapers, despite the machines' inclination to scrubbing away evidence of past histories._

_To Shepard, that was probably one of the most inspiring signs that they truly had won. The Tower of London stood tall, as did probably many other landmarks across Earth and even the entire Milky Way, while the Reapers, once having towered above them, now rested by their feet. An irony that Shepard believed should be written on Harbinger's epitaph._

_The Reapers were supposed to be immortal and timeless, and yet a building from the 11th century CE had outlived them. How's that for sweet justice, eh?_

_The clean-up process had massively accelerated too, from what he could see below. Much of the rubble clogging the streets around the hospital was gone, allowing for freedom of navigation for skycars and other emergency vehicles. Destroyed buildings had been demolished, while ones still relatively intact were undergoing or had undergone repairs. Street life even seemed to have returned to normal, albeit with significantly less civilian air traffic and a droll silence hanging over the city. The cost of victory had been high, and while Shepard had done his best, he had taken months...months that had seemed like years to the Londoners of this city, their population almost cut in half thanks to the conversion camps or building-to-building destruction of the surrounding area._

_Still, they were getting there. The people refused to allow their brush with annihilation to get in the way of them moving on with their lives. Given a few more years, normalcy would return to the galaxy, but the actual economic, cultural and military toll of the conflict would be felt for decades to come. Too many worlds had been affected, and the galactic economy had neared total collapse. Some governments may not even survive the next decade, and more wars would likely result._

_This was obvious to him. That's why he needed to get off Earth and escape to Rannoch as soon as possible. He didn't want to be around when the galaxy gets their shit together and starts to talk shop. Everybody knew who was responsible for what during the war, and heads would roll for ignoring Shepard's warnings, especially once it was learned he had been 'prophecizing' this for three years. The Council would be the worst hit, of that there could be no doubt. They'd have to tread very carefully, for they were walking on very thin ice now._

_He just hoped cooler heads would prevail. The last thing anybody needed after surviving the Reapers was to go starting another war, or wars._

_Checking the chronometer on his omni-tool, he inwardly groaned as he noted that fifteen minutes had already passed. Putting aside his annoyance, he took one last sip of his bottle before placing it back on the bedside table, limping back over to the middle of his room to resume his exercises. As he kept saying, the sooner he got it done, the sooner he could go back to Rannoch._

_Opening up with one hundred star jumps, he thought it best to think about something else as he progressed. His mind quickly found the subject of his potential new occupation to be fascinating, and it was then that he realized he really didn't have a clue as to what he truly wanted to do. Becoming a builder, especially considering he wanted to build Tali that house he promised her, seemed the most prudent...but he also wanted to remain true to his roots as a soldier, and it was hard to give up something you were good at. The idea of becoming a marine trainer came to mind, and he had to admit that it wasn't too bad an idea._

_And, of course, there was nothing and no one to tell him he couldn't do both. The quarian construction industry would be in its infancy by the time he got started on Rannoch, and his good will he had curried with the quarian leadership would immediately land him a position as a marine trainer with little issue. The work would have to be light of course, given his injuries, but he could make it work. Even a position as a simple military advisor would suffice, so long as he was allowed some connection to his old line of work. He had the skills, and it would be a shame to let them go to waste._

_As he completed his one hundred star jumps, he felt a small iota of pressure suddenly twinge in his lower right leg, and he gasped a little from the abruptness of it. It seemed to hang there as well, not getting worse, but not fading away. Not seeing it as a problem, he quickly began jogging on the spot, exaggerating the swings in his arms to stretch them out as well. He continued pondering on the choice he would have to make, and ultimately believed Tali would support such a decision as well. Plus, they couldn't rely on royalities they were awarded forever, so getting jobs would be a necessity. Besides, none of them were sit-down, do-nothing types of people, so it was inevitable they'd reach the same conclusion._

_However, as his exercising continued, so too did the build-up of that same ache in his leg. But this time it didn't remain dormant...it skyrocketed by orders of magnitude. His jogging immediately halted, unable to maintain it as he found himself falling to one knee, grasping onto his right leg for purchase as it seemed to twitch and cramp spastically, with seemingly no order to it. He groaned as the ache evolved into pain, a burning lance of fire that licked up his leg, setting off new infernos in its path. It felt like a million fire ants crawling over the limb, biting it all at once, creeping further and further up towards where the leg connected to his lower torso. Dazed and in pain, he had no time to contemplate the confusing predicament, only that he had no idea how to make the pain stop, and that Tali and Doctor Stoneman weren't close at hand._

_A twinge of agony caused him to bite down hard, just barely grazing his tongue. His teeth gritted down like an hydraulic press, and his entire jaw seemed to vibrate, almost like it had been locked down by an anvil. He suddenly felt the urge to sleep, and while he tried his best to fight it, it appeared this was one fight he couldn't win. His eyes fluttered open and closed, his mind and body struggling for supremacy. All the while, his brain was in a state of panic._

_What...the..._ _**fuck** _ _...is...happening...to me? he thought. He wished an answer to that question was within reach, but at the moment, it was as far away as Rannoch was. He could feel himself slipping away, barely on the edge of unconsciousness as he continued to fight. Quickly losing balance, he collapsed to the ground, head hitting the ground lightly enough not to cause pain, but hard enough to cause to bounce at least once. He had lost control of his right leg, and it spasmed freely, looking like a demon being exorcised. He could only watch with wide eyes as the shroud of darkness crept over him, his mind powerless to wrest back control of his synapses, trapped within the skull that was supposed to protect it...in this moment, it was but a mere prison._

_Uncertainty was the blanket that covered his eyes, and fear was what he felt going into the shadows. Whether he had fallen unconscious or not in that moment was unclear to him, only that it ended quickly._

_It was only a few short seconds later for him when he suddenly woke up, eyes shooting open unnaturally fast as he tried to immediately ascertain his location, as he was usually prone to do. He immediately noted that, strangely, he was not on the floor as he had been when he lost balance, but back in his bed, covers neatly thrown over him and numerous IV drips plugged into his left arm. He noticed the curious lack of sunlight coming into the room, and when he craned his head to look to his right, he found that not only was the window closed and the curtain pulled over it, but it was clearly dark outside._

_That worried him. How long had he been out for? And what the hell was wrong with his leg?_

_He reached down to rub it, the entire appendage feeling sore all along the length of it. He could still move it, but barely. He frowned in frustration, not sure what had happened or why. He wasn't even sure exactly how much had time had passed between him feeling unconscious and waking up in this bed. Was it hours? A day, maybe two? He needed to find out._

_His shifting around in bed revealed one thing to him: something, or someone, was partially lying ontop of him. It took him no time at all to figure out who it was, and by the time he had turned to his left to confirm it, he didn't need to. Tali lay with one arm draped across his chest, her mask pressed up against his chest as her body leaned up ontop of him from her chair, hanging onto him protectively._

_He wasn't the only one to notice his movement. Stirred awake (if she was ever asleep) by his shuffling around, the quarian raised her head to look at him, and her eyes immediately widened. Her hands quickly shot up to grab at his own head, her voice urgent and full of a trepidation that didn't instill much faith in him that something terribly bad hadn't happened, "Finally...you're awake! I was terrified it would take you days to wake up!"_

_He took a brief moment to look around a little further, licking his lips as he noticed they were botheringly dry and flaky. After a moment of further contemplation, he looked back at her, reaching up to hold her own hands, removing them from where they held on tightly to his cheeks and holding them gently and with loving care, "Tali, what's wrong? What happened? How long was I out?"_

_"You don't remember?" Tali asked, baffled, "You...you collapsed. You...John, you had a seizure. You were unconscious afterwards for nearly thirteen hours. You don't remember any of it?"_

_That shocked him...paralyzed him, actually. He...had a seizure? How could that be possible? The doctor said he would be fine...and he certainly didn't mention anything about seizures! What caused it? Why can't I remember it? And...thirteen hours? I was out for that long? That's practically the whole day!_

_"I...no...I don't..." he mumbled, trying to fully grasp what he had just been told. He looked away, believing that it was somehow allow his brain to find answers, perhaps hidden clues as to what caused his seizure, but nothing cropped up. Nothing explained why it happened...he couldn't even come up with a timeline of events to describe it. All he knew was that one minute he was fine...the next he was unconscious. He turned back to her, unable to hide the tension and fear in his gaze, "I...can't remember. All I know is that I felt immense pain in my leg, lost balance, and lost consciousness. The next moment I'm here, in this bed, talking to you. I don't remember any seizure!"_

_"Well I do..." she croaked, her voice beginning to break as she recounted what she saw, the memory of it visibly causing her distress, "I had just gotten us breakfast when I entered the room and saw you...convulsing on the floor. I...I can't...even recall what I did, only that by the time Doctor Stoneman and a team of nurses came in, I was...holding you...trying my best to soothe you...I thought you were still awake...your eyes..."_

_She broke into a sob, and he didn't hold back. He reached forward and embraced her in a firm hug, holding her head to his chest as he tried to console her, "I'm right here, its okay._ _**I'm** _ _okay. You did nothing wrong...whatever happened, I'm sure the doctor will get to the bottom of it."_

_And yet he couildn't remember it whatsoever. Tali's efforts to help him, her helping Stoneman to get him back into bed, or the events that followed it. He didn't remember a single bit of it. But according to Tali, it happened. Commander Shepard had a seizure. And he still wasn't sure of the why._

_Thankfully, he wouldn't have to wait very long to receive answers of some sort. As Tali silently sobbed into his chest, calming down now that she knew her bondmate was safe, Shepard gently cradling her, the door shot open to receive new company, one that both Shepard and Tali knew well by his point. Doctor Stoneman was as well-presented and punctual as usual, his white labcoat and that single datapad he carried looking to be his most distinquishable features. He walked over to Shepard, smiling wearily down at his patient with something of a grim smile. There was nothing amusing to be found however, and Stoneman's eyes reflected that as he brought up his datapad to look at it, Shepard's vital readings no doubt displayed on its surface._

_"Mr. Shepard," Stoneman began, scratching his lower jaw, "How are you feeling? Any adverse effects? You are aware of what's happened to you, yes?"_

_He nodded acetously, "Tali told me about the seizure, if that's what you're asking."_

_Stoneman didn't produce any sort of response to that, not even a nod. It appeared he already knew Tali was going to tell Shepard, if his lack of response was any indication. He simply flicked at his tablet, sighing deeply. The doctor looked deeply troubled about something, and Shepard knew that whatever was said next would not bode well for him. He could feel it...almost like the dread was circulating throughout the walls themselves, "Mr. Shepard, I just want to begin by telling you this isn't your fault. What occurred was something we failed to account for, and quite frankly, has left many on my team baffled. The seizure was merely a byproduct of a problem we didn't foresee, and we're deeply sorry for the grief this will cause you."_

_**Will** _ _cause him? He seriously disliked the sound of that. He made it seem like it was permanent._

_Finally, he lowered his datapad, apparently having no further use for it, and clasped his hands behind his back, "Mr. Shepard, what you experienced was the result of something my team believed was impossible. You remember what I told you about your cybernetics and the new implants we placed in you, yes? You also remember the bit about how I said they could potentially reject each other, leading to a violent response from your body?"_

_He nodded twice._

_Stoneman took that as an indication to push forward with the bad news, "We also predicted those effects would wear off with physical therapy, forcing your body's old implants to accept the new ones, and thus avoiding rejections. Six months later, it seemed we had dodged that bullet...until today. We don't know why, but integration between the implants hasn't eventuated. Why these symptoms didn't arise before, we can't be sure of, all we know is that they have. And while we had hopes these problems would sort themselves out...we're not sure now that they will. I'm sorry, Mr. Shepard...I truly am."_

_He felt like the entirety of his good mood over the period of the day had collapsed all at once. His entire world broke apart. He did indeed remember that Stoneman had forewarned him many months ago about the possibility of cybernetic rejections, and that they could cause seizures, but he had forgotten about them because the issues never cropped up...and so did his own presiding doctors, it seemed. Even Tali was in a state of shock, still holding onto him as remained steadfastly determined to ensure he was still alive and would stay that way. She didn't address Stoneman once, or even sit up to look at him._

_Noting the lack of a response, Tali being basically attached to Shepard, and the churlish nature of the subject matter, Doctor Stoneman quietly made his exit, likely deciding later would be a better time to discuss how to move forward. Shepard and Tali, meanwhile, could barely process their situation properly, and his arms returned to being wrapped around the quarian, hoping to find some recess and safety within her embrace, shielding him from the horror of what he knew would be an ailment he'd be stuck with for the rest of his natural life._

_Becoming a marine trainer seemed impossible now. His job in construction...it appeared a pipe dream. He was a cripple, and he knew now that even the slightest of exertions could lead to a seizure. There was no room for that in marine training, and it could be a potential death sentence on a construction site, especially if unsupervised._

_As he knelt down, placing his head next to that of his bondmate's, a single solitary tear drifted down his cheek, going unseen._

* * *

_Shepard Residence, Rannoch - February 3, 2188 - Present day_.

It was nearly impossible for the human brain to fully differentiate between reality and subconscious cognitive fiction at the best of times. Vivid dreams, no matter how absurd, scatterbrained and far-fetched, seem as realistic as reality itself within the trappings of one's own mind. If dreams like that can seem real...then ones that are flashbacks to moments of one's own history can seem like they're being lived in and of that very moment, confusing the brain as to what is concurrent, and which is the past.

That's how Shepard felt when his eyes opened. In the space of a minute, he had gone from sitting on his porch, drinking a beer, to being back in that damn hospital on Earth, learning the horrific news of his Stoneman's syndrome. He recounted that moment many times when he was asleep at night, but never in this amount of detail before, and certainly not when he was wide awake. He figured that it was likely a result of his 'second incident': a flashpoint in his life that led to a realization. An eternal memory that was awoken.

_I made a promise to Tali that day. I wish to God I had kept it._

Perhaps he had needed that second incident as a reminder as to why he was fighting so hard to say afloat in this new life of his. Secrets rarely remained as such, especially one as large as the one he had nurtured, and its exposure had felt humiliating to be sure...but also relieving. He couldn't explain it, but knowing that his friends now knew, or at least some of them: he knew such knowledge was in safe hands, and it felt better knowing he no longer had to keep a tight lip about it. In a way, them knowing was probably a better, more desirable, result.

There was no use pondering it now, though. What's done was done...he had to move past it. His wedding was in a week and a half, and he wanted to be ready...both emotionally and physically. Even now, just the thought of it was already disspelling the negative nature of his troublesome defect, flooding him with a sort of giddy happiness. He smiled; it was a reaction he just couldn't help. He felt chills along his skin, despite the sun's warmth beating down on him, and overall, he just couldn't find it in himself to continue thinking about his seizure.

_There's no use falling into self-pity over it. I made my mistake, and now its done. Tali forgave me, Garrus and the others will keep it secret, and I now fully understand my limits. There's no point worrying about what can't be changed. The future is what matters now...and in just over a week, I'll be taking my first step towards founding that new beginning._

He'd have this crippling disorder for quite possibly the rest of his life...in time, he'd come to live with that...perhaps even get used to it, as most cripples did. For now, he could help a little and let his upcoming marriage to the most important woman in his life become his main priority. He wasn't going to let that incident on the Citadel ruin that for them.

Urz by now was probably asleep, or at the very least very passive, as the varren had barely moved an inch from where he rested since Shepard had his dream. As such, Shepard was left totally unbothered, bringing his beer to his lips to take another sip. He heard a nearby pair of screeches, followed by the sound of dust and dirt being kicked up into the air, and he turned to the right to see a pair of rat-looking creatures struggling in the dirt, their bodies a flash of black fur and buck-like teeth as they clawed, bit and snarled at each other. What they were fighting over looked to be a single piece of dung, which Tali had assured him had no scent to it. Dust clouds kicked up as they fought back and forth, and Shepard just shook his head.

Tali called them  _bosh'tets_. No, not because it was her favourite curse word, but because it was legitimately the name of their species. Now Shepard knew why it was considered such a vulgar, disrespectful term among her people. When someone was called a  _bosh'tet_ , they were being compared to...that. A filthy, disgusting rat-like creature that fought others of its kind over its own excrement.

Basically describes politicians. No wonder Tali liked using it when talking about them.

There was a splash of water, causing Shepard to turn to his left this time, where he found a  _qui'tee_ bathing itself in their pool. The creature squawked happily as its mate joined him, the two's heads rubbing together as their quad-wings flapped and splashed the chorlinated water across the concrete foundations of the pool. Shepard considered trying to scare them off, but they weren't harming anybody, so he eventually decided against it, lying back and watching them continue their dance within the temperature regulated liquid.

_So many strange creatures on this planet...will take some getting used to it. Although no doubt Tali will have to as well...this may be her homeworld, but she's never lived on it before. No living quarian has. It'll be a new experience for both of us._

As he sat watching the  _qui'tee_ play around in their pool, he barely noticed as the door behind him was opened, Tali stepping out onto the decking. She stood there for a moment, two plates of food in each of her arms, looking down at him, watching him look across the pool. He must have looked peaceful, or at least somewhat relaxed, because she didn't move an inch to try and bother him. After a minute, she simply knelt down and slipped his plate into his lap, whilst grabbing a chair on the opposite side and pulling it over to where she could sit down next to him, lounging back, her own plate in her lap, her head turning to look at him. Finally taking notice, broken out of his trance, he turned to look at her, and smiled.

"Breakfast is ready, eh?"

She laughed, nodding, "I didn't want to bother you. You seemed distracted."

"I was," he admitted, turning her attention to the pool with a single motion of his head, "We have guests using our pool."

"I've noticed."

The two simply continued to watch as the quad-winged birds finished their bath, the  _bosh'tets_ to their right having long since retreated out-of-sight to continue their repulsive clash. Silence reigned supreme over the house once more, the only sound the roaring of waves nearby and the miniscule splashing of two birds minding their own 's hand found its way into his, and they squeezed each other's mutually. Eventually, Shepard's nose took note of the smell wafting into his nostrils, stomach grumbling once again as it reminded him of his hunger, and the solution that rested in his lap.

Reluctantly, he looked down at his food, tearing his eyes away from the pool. What he found was what he expected: a stack of three green-ish looking levo pancakes, accompanied by a scoop of chocolate ice cream (really the only thing Tali  _couldn't_ massacre, although it was basically impossible to screw up anything that was pre-packaged) and something dark black that resembled toast. His nose scrunched up as it picked up the hint of smoke, and he knew it was because of the charred, almost vaporized appearance of the toast before him. Hopefully Tali had put at least some butter on it, although given how dry it looked, he very much doubted it.

As he looked over, he could see Tali was selfless to the end, because her own breakfast didn't look all that appetizing either. He wasn't sure what the quarian was having, but whatever it was, he was sure it would be an affront to quarian cuisine. At least it didn't smell that bad...

He was hoping that he wouldn't have to eat it after all, that Tali's fascination with the birds near them would lead to their food going cold, but the  _qui'tee_ , seeing fit to punish him for his naivete, were done with their bathing, and took off into the air, ducking under the canopy that shielded the pool from the elements and darted out into the rust-coloured sky, likely off to seek a new home elsewhere on the continent, or find somewhere more private where they wouldn't be watched by two strange, two-legged creature with funny skin and even funnier languages. Their chirping could be heard ascending with them, until they could be heard no more.

It was then that Tali turned back to him, a smile to be found behind her mask, "Let's eat."

_Yes dear, let's._

With a false smile that he knew Tali would see through before long, he turned back to his plate, grabbed a fork and quickly found a part of the pancake stake that looked cuttable and sliced into it, allowing the bissected piece of food to slide onto his fork practically on its own. Knowing he was under Tali's watchful eye, he couldn't be seen to be hesitant, and quickly opened his mouth and allowed the food to be pushed right in, making sure to clean the fork entirely of the pancake that had rested on it. Inwardly groaning, he proceeded to chew, and winced at the texture.

He hummed, making fake sounds of satisfaction. In reality, he just wanted to spit it out. It truly was awful. Turning towards her, finding the quarian hadn't even touched her own food yet, and was anticipating his response to her cooking, he (rather) stupidly rubbed his tummy in quite possibly the most cliche, on-the-nose display of enjoyment he had ever exhibited. He stuck with it though, and once he had finished chewing as fast as possible, he swallowed it, hoping his stomach would have the common decency to at least digest the abomination he had allowed into his body fully. He smiled at her, giving her a thumbs up, "Delicious, dear. That was really good."

But Tali wasn't stupid. She saw through right through his pretense, and her shoulders quickly slumped, head hanging low as her smile wavered a bit. He immediately felt horrible for his attitude towards the food, even he was an unrepentant in his dislike of it, "No it isn't, I can tell you're just pretending. Its horrible, isn't it?"

"Well..." he stuttered, trying to find an answer that would allow him to continue pretending as if it were fine. Ultimately though he knew that would be wrong, not to mention an insult to his fiance's intelligence. He knew when the game was up, so he simply put his fork down, sighing, "Look Tali, I'm touched that you even tried. Your food is...least than stellar, but its the thought that counts. I know that's a small consolation, but I care more for the fact that you gave it a shot."

"You're not annoyed?" she asked, curious and surprised. He found that interesting.

"No...? Why would I be?" he asked, his food now forgotten. Even his stomach seemed to have gone silent, its constant demands for sustenance falling still.

"I thought..." she began, before lying back in her chair, shaking her head. Her hands began to wring again, and he knew from that moment that she was embarassed. Just seeing that made him wish he could like her food, if not just for self-esteem alone, "...well, I've been reading up on what human males expect from their partners, and I read that a good house wife knows how to cook. I just wanted to make you something you liked..."

"Wait a goddamn minute," he raised a hand, turning to her suddenly. Any remorse he felt was immediately set aside by exasperation, eyes wide as he twisted to face her fully, "You...where did you read up on  _that_?"

"The extranet," Tali admitted hesitantly, looking at him innocently. If he could see her face right now, he imagined her cheeks would be flushed bright red. She was so damn adorable when she got like this, "Something about 'perfect nuclear families'. Is...is that bad? Would you rather I have asked you?"

He sighed, then chuckled, hand wiping his eyes through his amusement. Not wanting her to worry any further, he reached over and grasped her hand, shaking his head with yet another laugh. He pivoted his head to look into her eyes, "Yes, but not for why you might think. Tali...you do know the definition of a house wife, right?"

"From what research I've done," Tali began, clearly resisting the urge to pull her hand from his so it could continue its dance with the other, "They're bondmates whose sole job is to maintain the family home. I read that cooking is one of those duties."

"That's correct," he acknowledged, making sure their eyes didn't part as he continued, "Tali, I don't want a house wife. If I wanted one, I wouldn't have fallen in love with a marine, would I? I think you've gotten the wrong idea."

"Keelah," she sighed, shaking her head as she quickly realized the mistake she had made. After a moment of collecting herself, she cocked her head towards him, voice uncertain, "So...you don't want me to cook for you?"

He laughed, patting her hand as he finally let go of it, lounging back in his chair once more, "Tali, I'm not going to stop you if you want to learn how to cook. I'm just telling you that you have no obligation to do it. You're not the housewife kind of person, and I wouldn't even dream of trying to convince you to give up your job just to live that life. Besides, housewives are a thing of the past. I'm sure they still exist, but by the late 21st century, pro-feminist rights movements have largely eradicated it. I certainly wouldn't expect a non-human to conform to it."

"Well that's good," Tali added, her tense and concerned body posture completely loosening up upon hearing that, hand reaching out to hold his again. He didn't resist as he closed the gap, their fingers interlocking, "If I'm honest, I didn't like the idea. Being stuck in this house all the time, my sole purpose to clean up after you? Keelah, I'd go crazy."

"Didn't think you'd be a fan."

A few minutes passed as they proceeded to eat their breakfast. Shepard eventually ate his, if only because he would go hungry if he didn't, while Tali continued to giggle and laugh as his face scrunched up and contorted with every bite. When he was finally done, Tali jokingly offered to make more, earning her a glare from him, followed by a laugh from both. Once they were both finished, plates were placed beside them while they returned to watching the sunrise, which by this point had long begun its ascent.

After a moment, Tali finally spoke, an epiphany hitting her mind, "You know...I still can't get over the fact that we'll be officially bonded in just over a week."

He nodded, a ghost of a smile creasing the upper left corner of his lips, "All this time after I proposed, and I'm still coming to grips with it myself. A week and a half is no time at all."

Tali's tone held the same enthusiasm now, but took on a slightly more dejected state, "I just wish we'd done a better job of keeping it secret."

Shepard nodded, grunting as he felt Tali's disappointment...not only that, but reciprocating it. Somehow, knowledge of their wedding had leaked to the extranet, and now every galactic news article was talking about the imminent bonding of Commander Shepard and Admiral Tali'Zorah. He surmized it was perhaps too much to expect that a wedding this big would remain a tight lidded secret for very long, and considering the immense amount of security the quarian government was throwing behind it, somebody was bound to open their mouth eventually, especially for quarians: a species known for their social nature. Still, it would have been better if the wedding had remained behind closed doors, with as little media attention as possible, but with that possibility thrown out the window, they'd just have to deal with it.

Shepard's main worry was word of this would reach the Shepardists, sparking their inevitable interest, especially given their obsession with this personal life. But with the security the wedding would have, the  _Normandy_ present, and Rannoch's standing orders to arrest any and all Shepardists attempting to land on the planet, it appeared those worries weren't well founded. Nothing was going to ruin his big day with Tali, and he was going to make sure of that. As was most of the quarian government it seemed.

Despite all of these consolations of the wedding's watertight security however, they weren't his primary concerns. He knew the wedding would be safe and security was left in the good hands of people he and Tali knew well and trusted fervently, so safety wasn't a concern. What was a concern was the very thing he had been reminded of most bluntly just a week ago, and what was now beginning to fill him with trepidation once again.

Tali must have sensed the rising foreboding within him, for her hand squeezed his ever more tightly, causing him to snap out of his thoughts and turn towards her, her head turned and waiting for his acknowledgement, "John, is something wrong? You...you don't seem all that happy."

"N-no! No...trust me, I'm beyond excited," he shook her hand gently, eyes taking on a more gentle, intimate approach, "I'm just...I want our wedding day to be perfect. Nothing goes wrong...just you and me, getting bonded, joining our lives together. Drinking and eating with our friends, nice quiet honeymoon, nothing but the thought a fruitful new life ahead of us. I want it to go forward without a single hiccup...but with my...issues...I'm not sure whether that'll be possible."

Understanding dawned in her immediately, and the quarian abruptly stood up, walking over and clasping his head between her two hands, forcing him to look into her eyes, "Look at me, John. You're going to be fine. Whatever problems you may have, they will  _not_  stop us from being happy. What happened on the Citadel required enormous amount of stress upon your body...that will not happen again. Not while I'm alive. I love you, and I'm not going to allow this disorder of yours to stop you from being happy. Make no mistake of that."

"I appreciate the confidence, Tali," he assured her, reaching up and grabbing her hands carefully, prying them from his face, before bringing them together and planting a kiss on both, "But you can't be certain of that. If I can't even stand up for long periods of time without breaking down into a seizure, then what...what use am I on our day? What if we reach the big moment, and my leg begins to burn up? What if...you're walking down that aisle...or when we're taking our vows...and I just...collapse? Boom, down on the floor, wreathing around like a puppet with its strings cut. I don't want our wedding to be remembered like that. That's not fair. Not on you."

Tali sighed, sitting down in his lap sideways as he let go of her hands, the quarian using one of them to gracefully and gently caress his cheek, "You worry too much,  _neh'sah_. The ancestors watch over us both, and I know they will not allow us to falter in our moment. You're strong. Keelah,  _so_ strong. I've seen you achieve victory against insurmountable odds time and time again. Yes, you're not perfect, but I know, deep down in my heart, that there's nothing to worry about. As long as you take it easy, you will not collapse. You will not have a seizure. You. Will. Be. Fine. This isn't about me...its about  _us_."

_Damn it, she's right. Perhaps I'm just too paranoid. Even Doctor Stoneman said it...the seizures only occur when too much stress has been put on the body for the cybernetics to handle it. Its not like I'm going to be sprinting up the aisle or battling a battalion of krogan while I'm taking my vows, so I don't get what I'm so worried about..._

_Perhaps it has nothing to do with the wedding. But what would it be then? Am I worried about something further down the line? Scared that my performance in some task that I've presciently predicted will fall short?_

And then it hit him. Like a hammer, it hit him, and right then and there, it seemed so bloody obvious. How could he have forgotten? A future yearning that he hadn't shared with Tali, a concept that he hadn't even addressed with her, let alone discussed.

"John? Say something. You don't have to be worried."

_Do I tell her what I want? Is this the right moment to bring it up?_

_Yes, I think it is. I've delayed bringing this up for far too long. Why? Am I scared she'd say no? That can't be it, because I've somehow known all along that she does want it. Her body posture, her eagerness to bring up the topic whenever it seems it might be finally discussed, only to be dejected when its quickly dismissed. I can see that it hurts her. And really, how can we plan our new life together without at least coming to a consensus on this?_

_She needs to know how I feel sooner or later. This is what a husband and wife do. They talk out their wants and needs. I can't keep my feelings secret any longer. I need to tell her._

_And if she doesn't want it?_

_She does. I can tell._

_But if I'm wrong?_

_I'm not._

Before Tali could begin to properly beg him to speak, he finally looked back up to her, having finally made a decision on the topic that she didn't even know was being debated in the deep recesses of his mind. He smiled dubiously, thinking of ways to best approach the acknowledgement of the inevitable discussion (and possibly, although he hoped not, the argument), and eventually came down to the conclusion that broaching the subject using the previous one as a conduit would work best, "Tali...there's another reason why I'm worried about my seizur-I mean, my disorder."

"Yes?" she asked, intrigued by the prefacing statement. She shifted in his lap, further evidence of her piqued interest.

_Well, I've got her. Time to go in for the kill. Hit or miss._

"I don't want to be..." he gulped, sick of his hesitation and finally going 'to hell with it' and just coming out with it, breaking through the insufferable barrier of reluctance that surrounded him, "I don't want to be a lousy father."

The significance of what he had just said wasn't immediately apparent to Tali in the few seconds it took for her to process the words leaving his mouth. But, always a quick learner, the quarian's indifference morphed into shock. She sat staring at him, eyes peeled wide, and for but a brief, agonizingly long, minute, he thought he might have made a mistake in presuming what she wanted.

But then shock gave way to excitement. The quarian's hands shot to her mouthpiece, and then in the seconds following that, she embraced him tightly, practically pulling all the air out of his lungs. Still, he did his best to return the hug, doing so with a laugh. The quarian's reaction filled him with immense joy, but before he had a moment to speak, Tali had already pulled back, holding him at arm's length, "You...you want kids? Why didn't you tell me?"

He scratched the back of his head, "I wasn't sure how you felt about it...I had a feeling you'd want a kid, but I also wasn't entirely convinced. I was concerned about bringing it up."

"Silly  _bosh'tet_!" she cried out, shaking her head with some mirth, "I...I...I can't believe this! And here I was worried you didn't want to have children!"

"Wait...you felt that way too?"

"Yes!"

_Bloody hell, we've both been a pair of idiots._

His only other reaction available to him that felt right in that moment was to break out into laughter himself, and the pair continued to hug each other like there was no tomorrow as they celebrated this unbelievable moment of elation. Another large weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he couldn't help himself as he just allowed all his unsuppressed joy to filter out into the open, letting it fuel Tali's own rapture.

After a few minutes however, the two quietened down. Despite how happy they were to share this revelation with each other, they knew one overhanging problem would continue to bother them regarding it unless they addressed it here and now.

In the end, Shepard was the one to bring it up. He didn't want to ruin this moment for either of them, but he knew neither of them could move forward with making this dream a reality unless they did so, and it was with that regret that he pulled away from her, cradling her head regretfully, "Tali...I hate to bring this up, but...we can't have children naturally. Surely you know that?"

Humans and quarians weren't biologically compatible, and neither were most alien races. Only the asari appeared capable of cross-species reproduction, and even then, all the children produced from such couplings were asari. The fact of the matter, as harsh to deal with as it was, was that Tali and Shepard couldn't have children through natural means. No matter how badly they wanted it, they couldn't. So they'd have to look for other options. Namely...adoption.

Which brought up the other issue...the child wouldn't truly be theirs. Not of their blood, but of anothers. This was an eventuality Shepard was ultimately prepared for, as he knew he'd end up loving the child regardless, just as Anderson had loved Shepard as a son he never had, regardless of blood ties. No matter what, Shepard knew he'd love their child, no matter what.

But would Tali be okay with this?

As it turned out, he didn't have to wait long for an answer. Spending a few seconds contemplating the question, Tali turned back to look at him, uncertainty clouding her expression, "I've...been thinking about that. Before you told me you wanted children, I'd been thinking of how to bring up the topic with you, and what solutions I could offer. Adoption was my first thought. Plenty of war orphans to go around, unfortunately. But...John, I want to...um..."

"You can tell me," he assured her, caressing her cheek. She hummed silently to that. She always loved it when he did that, and it always soothed her nerves. In a way, it was like a button he could press to melt all her worries away.

"I want...I want to experience what its like to carry  _my_ child. I want to truly be a mother. And while I'll never know what its like to truly carry a child of our making in my belly, there is a way for me to experience it. John...how do you feel about in-vitro fertilization?"

He had to admit, he hadn't given it much thought. Adoption, at least to him, had seemed like the only option available to them both to be able to raise a kid together, but if Tali truly wanted to experience a pregnancy...well, IFV did seem like the best option. Tali would get her pregnancy, and the both of them would be parents.

"How do I feel?" he asked, pretending to ponder it. After a moment, he scooped her up in his arms, pulling her up so her mask tapped against his forehead, allowing him a view through her opaque mask, and to the beautiful eyes that lay underneath, "Tali, you're asking the wrong question. You should ask: when do we start?"

Everytime Tali smiled, his heart warmed. Seeing it again and again would always be the highlight of his day, and seeing it in response to his answer made him smile back. She embraced him again, and the rest of that morning was spent discussing potential names for their son/daughter, when they should check in to get the process started, etc. Laughs were exchanged, whispers shared. In the end, the two fell silent once more, the topic of children still heavy on their minds.

Shepard just smiled dopily as he thought about it. Commander Shepard was going to be a dad.

_"You'd make a great dad." I sure hope so, Anderson._

An hour later, the warmth of Rannoch's sun was reaching its zenith, and with it, came the heat. Already he could feel his throat becoming dry and parched. And with its inviting salvation in sight, Shepard couldn't help but eye off the pool they had.

"I think I'm going to go for a swim," he announced, and as he moved to stand up, Tali shifted to the side to allow him to do so, the former commander stretching until each of his muscles popped in turn. Returning inside, he returned with a towel and a spare change of clothes, leaving them on the railing as he moved towards the pool. As he crossed the threshold into the pool area, he laughed, turning towards Tali as he pointed to the unbarricaded domain, "If we're having a kid, we'll have to get a gate installed here."

Tali stretched, Shepard's eyes running down her lithe form by instinct. Tali knew this, but saw no reason to stop...only encouraged under his lustful gaze. Finishing, she slid up in the chair and came to rest in it, looking at him with a laugh, "That'll be your job."

"Indeed?" he returned, stripping down to his boxers as he reached the edge of the pool. An idea forming in his mind, he turned back to Tali, who had made no moves to come anywhere near the pool itself, content with where she was currently seated, "Why don't you join me?"

"Um...no thanks," was the quarian's instantaneous reply. That caused him to raise an eyebrow.

He pointed to the ceiling, "You know the pool has a built-in containment system? I requested it with you in mind. One button press and this place can be sealed off and turned into a sterile chamber."

"I...I know," she replied, suddenly sounding nervous, "That's not the problem. I...uh...I can't swim."

"Really?" he asked, surprised by that.

"No need for swimming lessons on the Fleet," she admitted unashamedly, hands resting behind her head as she relaxed, "So I never learned how to."

"Interesting."

"I don't like how you said that."

"What part did you find issue with?"

"The suggestive tone."

He chuckled, "Don't worry, I'm going to make it my mission to teach you how to swim one day. I don't want this pool all to myself. Besides, wouldn't mind getting you in a bikini."

"Keelah, you're simple."

"But easy to please," he winked.

"Don't I know it," she winked back, her tone carrying with it its own suggestions.

He laughed, before diving straight into the pool, allowing its unyieldingly cold depths to envelop him, washing away the stinking hot weather and to protect him from Tikkun's rays.

Life was beginning to become normal. He wasn't lying when he said he could get used to this. In a week and a half, he'll be married...and not long after that, they'd be looking at having a child...they might even have more in the future. The possibilites were endless, and for the first time in a while, his disorder and the Shepardists weren't at the forefront of his mind. He wasn't in fear of the future, but rather anticipating it with excitement.

In a way, he was finally ready to embrace it.

* * *

 _Shepardist Sanctuary, Sanctum - February 3, 2188 - Two and a half hours later_.

Wars were really static affairs. They weren't waged with primary reasons dominating all, and they usually consisted of one big  _casus belli_ that drove it all, pieced together by smaller, less relevant pieces of the puzzle. For Rome during the Punic Wars, they warred with Carthage on the pretense of defending the  _omnium terrarum parens_ , but ultimately wanted to eliminate their Mediterranean rival and secure their rise to power over the region. For the United Kingdom in the First World War, Germany's declaration of war was considered a 'war against peace and stability in Europe', but in reality, they just wanted to eliminate, again, a rival to their imperial domain.

On and on it went. The Crusades were fought to reclaim the holy land, but had the underlying bonus of securing and maintaining Catholic supremacy in Europe, and blunting the Muslim expansions. The war against UIS in the late 21st century was historically considered to be the 'last great war against terrorism', but was ultimately a global effort to eliminate one enemy so they could go back to focusing on each other. Even the Skyllian Blitz, as tremendous a symbol as it was for Alliance power and defeating slavery itself, really had the ultimate goal of putting the Hegemony in its place, reminding it of its superior enemy's new place in the galaxy, while also openly flexing its muscles to the Council in a vain, but penultimately successful, attempt at gaining a seat among the Citadel's elite.

The Crusader's war was no different. Wars morphed and changed as they went along. Tides turned, allegiances shifted, players were added and removed, and by the hundreds, thousands or millions...men and women died. What matters is that war changes. Sure, it is always horrible...its never the noble endeavour governments make them out to be. Ninety percent of wars were fundmentally pointless: the remaining ten percent were wars with powerful moral and ethical ideologies to justify their existence. The Crusader's war was one of massive scope and scale. It could not hope to best the Reaper War in terms of devastation, nor did it aim to do so. No, he predicted this war would be quick, unexpected, and unanimous. There was one reason why he believed this.

The Crusader himself. The man could move mountains, and once he ascended to his rightful place, the Samaritan and his many servants to help guide him, the galaxy would be a better place for it. An end to war. No more famines. No more plagues. No more corruption or exploitation. No more bickering between powers. There would be one man to lead them all, one man to rebuild society and one man to reshape it into something good. The Samaritan's war against the Council, initially, had been to further this goal. To build an army, and then handing over the keys to the Crusader for him to do the rest. The war that followed would be a year long...two at best. But when it was over...history would see a  _Pax Galactica_ of the likes it had never seen before. It would be glorious, and the Samaritan would be honoured to bear witness to it.

However, just a week ago, the problem in that plan cropped up: the Crusader wasn't ready. Not only that, he had fallen victim to a manipulation that was as insidious as it was profoundly iniquitous. One of his own team members, one Tali'Zorah vas Normandy, had turned him against everything he stood for...made him complacent, weak, immoral, selfish and worst of all...idle. He would not take command of the FAICRU. In fact, he had given orders for it to disband for the whole galaxy to see, and with that, had reportedly returned to Rannoch, with not a peep heard from him since then. This should have been a mortal blow to the organization, and it would have been. But the Samaritan saw right through the lies and attempted deceit. He smelt the fraudulence from light years away, and when he shared this knowledge with the FAICRU, they didn't disintegrate. No...they united. They became stronger.

Within a week, priorities changed. Instead of gearing for war against the Council, they secretly declared war on a new foe: the Herald. Tali'Zorah was the Herald, of that much he was sure, and neutralizing her would be part of the Crusader's quest of deliverance. But first of all, he had to be freed from the Herald's clutches. He had to be shown the way...and the Samaritan had a plan for doing just that.

The first phase was simple: the war would go silent. He ordered all Shepardist operations galaxy-wide to cease immediately, wanting to give both the Council and the Herald the illusion that they had disbanded as the Crusader ordered. This would give them time to prepare and consolidate their new campaign strategy, while fooling the Herald into believing the threat to her control was gone. The thought of it made the Samaritan smile...especially given the Herald wouldn't see what came next. Nor would the Council.

_They'll believe I've splintered and my people have lost hope. Let them believe such delusions. My people remain strong, and when the time comes to reveal that to the galaxy, it'll be too late for them to do anything about it. And the Advocation will spread like wildfire, and they'll be helpless to stop it._

The second phase was the far more ambitious, and far more risky, part of the Samaritan's plan. It would require precise planning, skillful use of assets, and most of all, people who knew what they were doing. This wasn't a task for simple missionaries...no, he needed people with combat skills. Specifically, skills in infiltration and exfiltration. It would require an escalation of hostilities that would inevitably put the FAICRU on the war path, but he knew his people were ready for this...they had spent months building up their strength as best they could, but now they needed the Crusader to truly complete the process, for without him it would all be pointless. So they had to act now.

Operation Witch Hunter was the plan the Samaritan devised. It was ambitious and dangerous, and failure would inevitably lead to full-scale war from the Council, which he knew would prove disastrous for them. No, it had to succeed...defeat was not an option. He'd do it himself if he could...but he knew he wasn't in the right mindset to do so, and his own combat skills were of nebulous nature to begin with. So once his plan was in motion, he made the call: he summoned Krend, his krogan bodyguard and one of the few ex-military Shepardists he knew of and trusted, and had him assemble a roll call for every able-bodied, combat-experienced Shepardist in the organization, where he would then handpick six people he believed to be of the highest skillset needed for the mission.

He was gambling a lot by doing this, but he knew it had to be done. He had chosen Krend, not Conrad or Jenna, for this task because he knew the krogan, by his very nature, would be the best choice for separating the 'wheat from the chaff', and finding the best warrior. The krogan would not fail him. The Samaritan was also aware of the amount of ex-soldiers and mercenaries that the FAICRU attracted, all of them touched by the Crusader's actions in one fashion or another. They had no shortage of these sorts of men and women.

Here he sat, behind his task, awaiting the completion of Krend's task. The krogan had confirmed to him that he had chosen six candidates, and was now escorting them to the Samaritan's office. He assured him, when asked, that the candidates excelled above and beyond what he asked for, and that he would even recommend one of them for a command position: so impressed was he with his ability. This relieved him of any concerns he might have had, and he eagerly awaited the opportunity to be introduced to these new assets of his.

He had summoned Conrad to bare witness to this new stage in the war effort, mostly because he wanted to keep a close eye on the man. Ever since Jenna's return from Earth, there had been a change in Verner, and while he found it had little impact on his performance as a lieutenant, it did make weary. His enthusiasm seemed far more downplayed, and there was a glint in his eye that rubbed him the wrong way. Jenna herself had it her mission to steer clear of Conrad, the two rarely being seen at gatherings anymore at the same time, or on the same side of the room. This is ultimately what led the Samaritan to assume the two had a falling out, and that Conrad, being the overly-emotional figure that he was, to have a change in attitude.

_A lover's quarrel. No doubt Jenna didn't agree with Conrad's dedication to the cause. No matter. If his separation from her allows him to excel at his job, not to mention be freed from her influence, then I find little negativity to be extracted from it. This could be for the best._

Neither had to wait very long for the six candidates to arrive. A reverberant knock on the door was heard, shattering the awkward silence that rested between the room's two occupants, and causing Conrad to flinch as he heard it, especially from his position next to the door. A second later, Krend's voice was heard, gravelly voice easily piercing the door even at its low pitch, "I have the six runts for you here, Good Samaritan."

"Excellent," he announced in return, turning to Conrad as he straightened his shirt and cap, standing up and clasping his hands behind his back as he did, "Open the door, Mr. Verner."

Conrad nodded, taking a second longer as he gulped. He overcame this bout of reluctance however, and stepped over to the door, tapping it with one hand. It shot open, and quickly admitted the six guests into the room, each walking in single file to stand before the Samaritan, lining up from left to right. Krend remained outside the door, standing guard at his usual position, and thus wasn't present when the door closed, Conrad resuming his own position at the door, arms crossed and eyes looking distant and mind clearly elsewhere.

But the Samaritan's attentions were not with his lieutenant at the moment, but with his new candidates. And from the quick glance he got, Krend had chosen well. Each was unique in their own way, although he had to admit that he was shocked to find a vorcha among their ranks, the vicious species of dim-witted, barbaric bipeds prone to violence and simplistic warfare not exactly the first candidates for a special forces team. He found Krend's decision on that questionable, although he surmized the krogan had his reasons, and that he would soon discover them.

His first inclination was to have each person, from left to right, introduce themselves and their skill set, as well as their reasons for joining the Shepardists, so that the Samaritan could get a feel for their personality, speciality and fitness for being on the team they were chosen to be members of. Deciding this would be the best course of action in his mind, his attention, in no time flat, pivoted to the furthest member to the left...a batarian.

He reached out his hand to shake the batarian's, who wasted no time in returning the gesture, his grip so unbelievably strong that he felt the batarian could have easily crushed the bone within his hand. Even as he pulled it away afterwards, he tried to hold back the grimace of pain he had felt, maimed hand returning to be clasped at his back.

From the quick assessment he ran of the man's frame, he was a daunting specimen of his species. Over six feet tall, the batarian was a monster, arms and legs rippling with lean muscle, and eyes looking to be consistently scrunched up in perpetual anger. An array of scars lined the sides of his face, a particularly nasty one slashed across his throat area. His top left eye was missing, replaced with a white, synthetic replacement that was as unnerving to look at as the scar on his neck. Even the clothing he wore seemed to radiate raw strength, with his shirt looking a bit too thick to not be lined with something, likely bulletproof body armor. This man was strong, and the Samaritan would hate to be the poor soul who got into a hand-to-hand melee with him. The batarian looked strong enough to rip a man's arms clean off just with his bare hands.

"This is how this will work," he began, addressing them all, as well as the batarian, "You will introduce yourself when I address you. Name, profession, and why you're here. Starting with you." He finished, turning back to the batarian as he finally sat down, pulling his chair in, hands gripping each other firmly ontop of his desk as he looked up at the well-built beast of a man.

When he spoke, his raspy voice sounded like someone whose vocal cords had suffered serious amounts of damage, and yet he still spoke with a degree of authority that made him feel small and powerless. Yet, he still addressed the Samaritan with the level of respect his status owed him, "Krato Drobmachar, Good Samaritan, pleased to be of service here. I was a former explosives expert for the Hegemony Army, and briefly served as a taskmaster on Erszbat. I've fought in many battles, but my service ended following the Skyllian Blitz when I was captured by Alliance soldiers. They later released me, and I joined the Blue Suns. I was present in London during the final battle, where I saw the Crusader fighting first hand."

"Why are you here, Krato?" he asked, with a raised eyebrow and a suspicious glare, "The FAICRU are diametrically opposed to the institution of slavery and are natural enemies of Khar'Shan's ruling regime."

Krato seemed angered by the insinuation lacing the Samaritan's statement, and made no secret of his hostility regarding it. His hands clenched and unclenched, but he made no move to assault or attack the Samaritan, demonstrating a level of restraint, "I  _hate_ the Supreme Regent. I hate the Hegemony, and everything it stands for. Not all batarians are slavers and evil men, Good Samaritan. My people have been oppressed and subjugated by members of our ruling class, and they've fed us nothing but lies for the majority of it. When I got captured, I was shown the light. The world outside the Hegemony, and I realized my folly. I turned against the Hegemony. I couldn't save my people, so when the Alliance tried to turn me back over to my people, I fled and joined the Blue Suns. They offered good pay, and I could put my skills to good use. I...I joined the FAICRU because it gave me a cause to fight for, and most importantly, a chance to prove myself to the Crusader. His belligerence to the Hegemony is well known, and now I understand it. I would gladly serve him. The Founders would not forgive me if I sat this one out."

Krato impressed him, he had to admit. He was generally distrustful of batarians, but recent events and the SRA had allowed their species to win hearts and minds, revealing themselves to be largely the opposite of the heartless, ruthless warlords and slave-owners most of the galaxy believed them to be. Krato was clearly one of these people, and his occupation as an explosives expert, plus his obvious talent for hand-to-hand combat, would prove vital for the team. He was in, "Excellent work, Krato. You'll get that chance to prove yourself very soon, believe me."

Next in line was a male quarian. Compared to Krato, this man may as well have been tiny, and his frame was nowhere near as well-defined, or as evidently in-shape. However, after his few discussions with Rannochian cell leader Nala'Seeram, the Samaritan had learned a few tidbits about quarian culture, especially in regards to their veils. Veil color denoted status, rank and occupation in quarian society, and this quarian's red veil quickly identified him as a marine...or at least a former one. His visor was a bright shade of blue, and while he looked largely unremarkable after that, the Samaritan knew his former marine status would grant him a place on this team.

"Cann'Tulun," the quarian declared, hands clasped behind his back, "I was a marksman for the 34th Marine Expeditionary Force in the Migrant Fleet Marines. Was top of my class for 2177, and my kill count rests at a nice 964, thanks to the Reaper War. I rarely miss a shot, my squad said. I could hit a geth through its optics at six kilometers away, and that's not an exaggeration. The reason I've joined the FAICRU is simple: my people owe the Crusader for retaking Rannoch for us. And I also want the Herald dead."

That part surprised him. His first impression of Cann was that the man was cocky and sure of himself, and he made no secret of his own ego, and was clearly proud of his accomplishments. The Samaritan was admittedly impressed by them, and knew a sharpshooter of his skill would be invaluable to this team, but that last part caught him offguard. He had expected the usual 'for the Crusader', but this man's reasons seemed preposterous, especially given his species, "You want the Herald dead? May I ask why? She's one of your own."

Cann just scoffed, shaking his head with a laugh. When his amusement wasn't shared by his peers, especially by a particularly stoic and severe looking human man towards the right, he turned back to the Samaritan, "Sir, with all due respect, that  _bosh'tet_ is a treasonous whore if I ever saw one. I was there for her trial on the Migrant Fleet...her daddy got people killed and she helped him. But nope, she got free of all charges. She managed to worm her way into the Crusader's mind and corrupt him from the very beginning, and that's a cancer we simply can't allow to spread. Her position as an admiral just makes her all the more dangerous...this position gives me an opportunity to do us a favor, sir. My mission is to serve the Crusader by any and all means available to me...and if that means putting a bullet in that  _hec's_  head, then I will gladly perform that duty, sir."

The venom in the quarian's voice was as clear to him as it needed to be. However, his blind hatred for the Herald could prove useful, and his devotion to the Crusader was as clear as day. The single nod he gave to Cann as he turned to the next person in line was enough to confirm to the quarian that he had argued his case successfully, and he returned to his parade rest in total silence.

Then he came to the biggest surprise of the meeting: the vorcha. It took him a little bit more than a second to analyze the creature, and what he saw was already atypical of the species. He wore quite a bit of armor, which most vorcha didn't due to their incredibly high regenerative capabilities, with his entire torso covered in thickset, silver plated armor. On the top left of his breastplate was a small insignia with a lightning bolt ontop of an anvil. He didn't recognize the organization, but whoever they were, the armor was clearly of top notch manufacturing, especially given its ergonomic and efficient design. The vorcha also had an eyepiece over his left eye, which looked to be tactical in nature. Finished looking over the vorcha, he frowned, "I must admit, I'm surprised Krend chose a vorcha. Your species isn't renowned for its intelligence."

"That's because Breen is one of a kind," the human from before spoke, the amount of care he took in his movements and how loudly he spoke carrying with it a level of professionalism that the Samaritan found himself immediately swept up by. He was clearly of Czech origin, as his accent immediately gave away, and the Samaritan already found himself fascinated by the man, "He's an engineer. A savant with tech, and quite the machinist. He's helped me quite a bit."

"You know each other then?" the Samaritan countered.

A curt nod, "Indeed. Breen is my adjutant."

"Yes," Breen finally spoke up for himself, again to the shock of most of the room, and he continued to shock them with his ability to actually form complete sentences, a feat most vorcha struggled with, or simply didn't bother to try and fix, "We are a pack. Bounty hunters. We have killed many important people. Strong people. Positions of power."

"Very few know of us and we made sure of that," the human added, "We specialized as manhunters, but we also dabbled in assassination and Sonax hired us briefly to lead their special operations raids during the War for Garvug. Infiltration is something I've been trained heavily to specialize in, and I've made sure Breen has been a recipient of that very training as well."

"How did you and Breen come to meet?" the Samaritan asked, more so he could learn more about the human, more so than Breen, whose talents he had already been sold on, "You have to admit, its strange that a vorcha can come into such intelligence naturally. Its almost impossible, in fact."

"Correct," the human soldier agreed, nodding his head sagely, "Breen is a special case. Few know of my operations as a Black Jackal, and that's because we're not supposed to have existed. Black Jackals were among the first N7s, and my father was chosen to be among their ranks due to his status as one of Austro-Germany's best in the KommandoSpezialkräfte. However, what even fewer know is that the Black Jackals have gone rogue, a fact the Alliance tries to keep secret. We temporarily joined Cerberus, but once we saw which way their wind was blowing, we turned to the mercenary life. We became a mercenary outfit...even kept the name. Fought for private armies, and occasionally waged wars on our own. My father took me and my mother when he went rogue, and he made sure to pass all his training onto me. When he passed away...I passed the test, and became a Black Jackal. I met Breen during one such war on Heshtok. Somehow, some vorcha tribe was able to afford enough money to hire the Black Jackals to take out some rival  _magor_. We succeeded, but the vorcha's younger son was left to fend for himself. In a moment of weakness...I took him in. I taught him how to read, write, and fight. Eventually, he discovered an affinity for mechanics. I learnt that day that vorcha aren't naturally stupid. Given a chance, they can be just as smart as the rest of us. A lack of regulated society is what has led to the vorcha's demise, not their own biology."

_This man fought with a top-secret special forces unit and raised a vorcha all on his own? Who is this man? And why has he ended up here, in my organization?_

In fact, that was the very next question he levelled at the soldier, "Who are you, soldier? And why have you seen fit to join the FAICRU? It appears you have everything going for you. Are the Black Jackals with us?"

The man finally managed a smile at that, "First Lieutenant Roman Dobroslav, if it pleases you. As for the Black Jackals...we parted ways. They didn't agree with bringing on a vorcha in our unit, and when I fought them over it, they tried to have me killed. They couldn't kick me out, you see...nobody joins the Black Jackals and is allowed to get out. Could ruin our reputation. But Breen and I survived their attempts to kill us, and we've been operating on our own ever since...at least, until we joined the FAICRU."

"Well...Roman," he reiterated, leaning closer to get a better look at the man. His scraggly brown beard, well combed hair, piercing blue eyes and strong jawline painting the picture of a man who had seen years of service, fought with a rifle for well over a decade, and had mastered his craft precisely, "Why are you here?"

"Simple," Roman put a-matter-of-factly, "The Crusader is one of us. If he had been alive during the time, they'd have made him a Black Jackal...if not the leader of the whole unit. He's a soldier through-and-through, and a man of principles. He doesn't discriminate. He knows good men and women from the bad, and knows how to separate the rotten apples and the ripe ones: he's a man of honor and conviction, and that's something I have to respect. The Council are quick to dismiss his sacrifices, and my own government have forgotten him: I believe he is destined to lead us simply by example alone. I'd have been honoured to serve beside him during the war, but this will do. And if he must be rescued from the Herald, I will utilize every skill I have to make sure he is saved from her grasp. The Black Jackals have never failed a mission...and you will find I haven't either."

He was thoroughly impressed. Roman, and by extension Breen, had influenced him the most with their introductions, and the Samaritan was right to believe they were easily the best choices for the team thus far. While all of them would make the cut, Roman and Breen had well and truly guaranteed their positions, and for Roman...the Samaritan might even consider giving him command of the unit, especially if he made good on his promises, and was telling the truth about his history with the Black Jackals.  _He could be an absolutely crucial asset: no doubt the man Krend was sold on. And Breen...if his technical prowess isn't exaggerated, he'd be invaluable as well. Especially if it can counter the likes of the Herald's own skills in that department._

Nodding to both Roman and Breen, he turned to their fifth candidate...a drell. As the Samaritan came to expect with drell, this man was extremely lithe, every accentuation of his body looking to be a carefully honed weapon. The dark brown coat that hung round his torso did little to hide this fact, and his reptilian eyes blinked as they seemed to scan the room, looking for exits and determining who to kill first if he should need to fight his way out. Having zoned out, the drell didn't notice the Samaritan was looking at him until he turned and noticed it, blinking ever so slightly. Finally, after a singular moment, he bowed, humbling himself before the Samaritan before he spoke a single word.

"I am Tikhas Keal, former servant of the Compact," he explained, before standing back up, straightening his posture and looking down at his leader, but doing so in a way that still made it seem like he was subservient to the man, and not in fact above him, "I was an assassin and infiltration specialist for the Drell Auxiliary Corps before my hanar masters saw fit to dispose of me. I developed ideas and beliefs that conflicted with their purpose for me. However, they imparted upon me their skills far too well, and I evaded their capture quite easily. I now serve the Crusader in all things, especially now that I know he will liberate the galaxy from all forms of slavery."

"What ideas and beliefs did you develop that scared the Kahje government enough to try and liquidate you?" he queried.

"I dared to ask why my people were being held prisoner by the Compact," Tikhas argued, remaining rather emotionless and calm despite the passionate and raw nature of the subject matter he discussed, "For 800 years since Rakhana was brought to ruin, my people have remained subservient to the hanar out of a sense of gratitude and debt. Yes, they saved my people from extinction, but that does not mean we should have to serve them as glorified slaves. Traitors among my people helped to draft the Compact, and I'd have killed them myself if I could have. Eventually, I stopped carrying out orders, and tried to...inspire...my comrades to rebel. Instead, they betrayed me to the hanar, and they sent Enforcers to have me silenced. I escaped Kahje with my life, but I haven't forgotten my drell brothers and sisters. I know the Crusader will liberate them some day, and I live for that day."

"You've made your case, and I have heard it," he declared, nodding to the drell respectfully in a way that wouldn't offend him or make him feel he was being brushed off, "Welcome to the team, Tikhas."

That brought him to the sixth and final candidate, a single female quarian who wore a plain, coloured veil. This confused him, as he didn't remember Nala mentioning this kind of veil, nor its connotations as a profession. In fact, this quarian, he found, had been watching him the entire time, and when he turned to address her, their eyes locked instantly. There was something odd about this woman...something overtly creepy. Her veil held no color, she watched him like a cat observes their owner (silently and without demand), and she didn't speak nor offer anything to him. She was an enigma.

One he was determined to crack, "And you are?"

A few more seconds passed in silence, and just as he was about to demand she speak, she did just that, her tone carrying a rather bored, but collected tone that only added to the mystery surrounding her, "Rela'Yaman. I used to work for the Tecr'teh-10."

Cann's eyes widened at that, turning to look down the row at her, "Naval intelligence? The fuck is a spook doing with the FAICRU? Are you spying on us?"

Rela just rolled her eyes behind her mask, "I believe I said I  _used_ to work for Tecr'teh-10. They've since terminated my employment. They got worried that I enjoyed my job perhaps a little...too much."

"And what skill sets do you have to offer?" he interrogated, ignoring Cann's obvious objection to such questioning. Clearly the former marine wasn't thrilled with the idea of having to work with a former naval intelligence agent, but he wasn't going to let that force him to dismiss a potential valuable agent, "You said you worked with the Migrant Fleet's Office of Naval Intelligence."

"Indeed, Mr. Samaritan," Rela affirmed, "My expertise was not in intel dissemination, however. No, the Migrant Fleet had need of my...more 'deniable' talents. If need be, threats to the Fleet's security were brought to me and I worked them out. Squeezed whatever information I could out of them. By the time I was done with them, most were...quite unfit for continued life and had to be disposed of. But the intel I acquired saved lives, of course, so the Admiralty allowed me to continue my work. My speciality is in psychological warfare and interrogation. Ask any of the subjects that survived a session with me what they think of my methods...I think you'll find my name brings a certain amount of terror to their person."

"Fucking spooks," Cann muttered, "As emotionless as the geth, and almost as ruthless as the damn  _Feksogar_."

"Incorrect," Rela returned with some amusement, "A geth cannot take joy from their work."

Unperturbed by the disgusted snort that came from Cann, or by Rela's blatant admission of sadism, the Samaritan pressed on: mostly because a mistress of interrogation and intelligence was vital to their war effort, and thus a highly sought after resource, "And why are you here? What brings you to the Crusader's side?"

Rela just shrugged, "Whatever the man is in person, it hardly matters. His reputation speaks for itself, and I believe the goal he has in mind is worth the extra slog. If I can offer my services to his effort to liberate this galaxy from those  _bosh'tet_  filth on the Citadel, then I will endeavour to do my best to rip them out, roots and all. My people are not loved by those sycophantic delinquents, and they will no doubt fear my people's new rise to power. The Crusader is a friend of the quarian people, and thus his mission is my mission. I think that's reason enough. If not, I will simply serve him in other ways."

"I wouldn't trust her, sir," Cann warned, his constant grumbling and the irritable noises leaving his mouth beginning to give the Samaritan a slight spasm of a headache, "I lost many friends because of the intel supplied by people like her, sir. I even lost my first bondmate to that catastrophe on Haestrom back in '85. People like this exist only to get people killed."

Whatever response Rela was prepared to mount in her defense was decisively cut off as the Samaritan raised his hand in the air, calling for silence. When he sure Cann and Rela had nothing more to say, he turned to the male quarian, "Rela has talents we can make use of it. You're not serving the Migrant Fleet or the quarian people anymore...you're servants of the Crusader. By that alone, your past sins are washed away. The only thing that matters now is how you serve the Crusader, and I know Rela's abilities will do her well in that regard. You will set aside your differences...not just for me, but because the Crusader will demand it. You serve him now, and that's the only thing that matters. Have I made that clear enough?"

Cann, while clearly full of himself, had the sense to not try and argue with that, "Completely, Good Samaritan. I meant no disrespect."

"I will make sure my services are used to their fullest extent," Rela added, nodding deferentially towards him, "They are at the Crusader's disposal."

"I'd expect nothing less," he reciprocated, now finally done analyzing the group. He had done so with the intention of finding the weak links and eliminating them, but from what he had found, there were none. Krend hadn't just found the bare minimum needed to pull off the mission...he'd found artists, and each one was a master of their kind of brush. An explosives expert, a sniper, a machinist, a special forces operative, a stealth master and a decipherer of whispers. Each one had a special ability that could contribute to the larger whole, and neither of them would sub-par. This went beyond what he expected. This...was excellent.

_I had no idea the FAICRU had attracted such specialists. A former Black Jackal, a quarian naval intelligence officer, even a former Hegemony taskmaster. Every single one is a perfect fit for this team, and this mission. We might just be able to pull this off._

"I've listened to you all, and I have made my judgement," he declared, quickly standing up, a movement that caused all six candidates before him to straighten, "I have deemed you all fit for this task. The Crusader would be proud of the army that has flocked to his banner, and while he doesn't know it yet, you will soon know his gratitude, as will we all. You have refused to stand by and watch the corruption overcome him, and I commend that. Your task will be dangerous and risky, but you've all shown yourselves to be capable of it. As such, from this day forth, you will be known...as the Exaltation squad. The FAICRU's first strike option...our first and last line of defense. The Crusader's very own honor guard."

Roman snapped a salute, young expression and disposition showing no sign of his youthful exuberance as he briskly performed the action. Duty was what emboldened him, "It is an honor to be chosen for this unit, Good Samaritan. I will not let you down."

"I doubt you will," he affirmed. After a moment's contemplation, he nodded again, "And because of that,  _you_  will be the commander of this squad. Understand the enormous responsibility this will bring...you will be the Crusader's personal adjutant when the time comes. You will fight by his side, sweat by his side, toil at his side...and, if need be, die by his side. Do you understand the enormity of this responsibility, and do you accept it?"

He didn't even hesitate for a second, "Soldiers are trained to die, sir. Special forces just learn how to do it with maximum effect. I'll get it done."

 _I like that_.

"Good. Well, if that's settled, we can get down to my plan."

Sitting back down, he was about to begin when he realized Conrad was still standing in the corner of the room, watching them astutely. As much as he trusted the man to keep his mouth shut, the contents of this mission had to remain behind closed doors, and thus couldn't be heard by anyone other than the Exaltation squad themselves, and the man who planned it...namely himself. So Conrad had to go.

"Conrad," he announced across the room, drawing all attention in the room towards the lone man who was standing by the doorway. Once he had his attention, he motioned to the door, "Wait outside."

He frowned at this for a second, looking for his part to be disheartened by the lack of trust insinuated by this action. But he took this dishonor silently, and beat a hasty retreat from the room, the Samaritan waiting until the door had closed before he sat back, arms crossed.

"Now, you all are aware of my new mission for this organization," he began, noting the nods of each member of the squad. They had all been present for that particular meeting a week ago, and had born witness to the dawn of a new era for FAICRU. Pushing on with solemn determination, he brought up his omni-tool and activated a holographic projection above it. A single planet was illuminated, although its identity remained only evident to Cann and Rela upon first glance, "Rescuing the Crusader is now our top priority, yes. However, what I have not told the rest of FAICRU, and which I'm only making evident to you, is that I have a plan to make this happen sooner, rather than later. Do you recognize this planet?"

"Its Rannoch," Roman stated first, much to the surprise of the rest of the group. He had expected Cann and Rela to identify it first, but it was clear Roman had either done his research, or knew of the planet beforehand, "The Crusader's current home."

"Yes," he confirmed, using his fingers to zoom in on the planet, revealing a single, two-story house, "And this is where he lives, along with the Herald. Now, our goal here is extraction. As much as I would overjoy in authorizing a kill order on the Herald, it would only jeopardize your primary objective...so for the moment, she lives. Your mission is to extract the Crusader only."

"How do we do that?" Krato pondered, examining the hologram closely, "Rannoch has an entire quarian and geth fleet in orbit constantly checking all ships coming to and leaving the planet. And even if we did get in, how do we reach the house undetected, extract him and get out? They've barred the planet to all Shepardists. We should have nabbed him while he was on the Citadel."

"There wouldn't have been enough time," Tikhas stepped in, "By the time we knew of the Crusader's presence on the station, it would take us four days to get there...one day to ready ourselves, and three days to reach the Citadel. The Crusader left within two days of getting there. Nowhere near enough time."

"So how do we get to him?" Cann queried to the group, "Rannoch is locked down tight, and the Herald's hold over the Crusader means he'll never leave the planet unless he has a really good reason to do so. And even if he does leave, it'll be on the  _Normandy_...and it'd be suicide to assault a warship. And on the ground, he'll have his squad...and we all know we don't stand a chance up against them, not even with our skills."

"Maybe we don't have to lure him out," Roman muttered, clearly deep in thought. All eyes in the room landed on him...some laced with confusion, others with exasperation. Rela mostly looked intrigued...a train of thought she shared with the Samaritan as he switched off the hologram, leaning forward.

"You have an idea?"

"I do," Roman confirmed, "You probably all know this by now, but news of the Crusader's wedding to the Herald is all over the extranet. Every major news outlet has gotten word of it. Now, its a private event, and they're not allowing outsiders, but one thing we know for sure is that it'll not only bring the Crusader out into the open...but separate him from the Herald."

"You're right," Cann pointed out, raising a hand to imitate the human gesture of rubbing the bottom of his chin in thought. Although, with a helmet on, it did look a bit out-of-place and awkward, "I don't know about human weddings, but for quarian bonding ceremonies, bondmates aren't allowed to see each other before the wedding. Its tradition."

"Same for humans," Roman confirmed to the quarian, nodding to him as he turned back to the Samaritan, "But that only removes her from the equation. We've still got the blockade to get past, and now we've also got the added bonus of wedding security. From what I've heard, it'll be heavy. A battalion of geth troops, a platoon of quarian marines, and if scuttlebutt is to be believed, Urdnot Wrex will be bringing his own contingent of Urdnot troops, with Admiral Hackett attending with a compliment of Blue Falcons, led by an N7 named Captain Riley. However...that works in our favor."

"How does that work for us?" Krato asked exasperatingly, "There's a veritable army protecting the Crusader down there. Krogan, geth, quarians and Alliance special ops...the fuck are we supposed to do to get past that?"

"Simple. We don't," he leaned over the table, using his hands to brace against it, "I'll work out the details, but with help from our friend Rela here, it'll be a simple matter to forge some military credentials for myself to get me into that Blue Falcon contingent. FNG, or something of the like. Once in, I'll mingle within the wedding, find the Crusader and find out someway to separate him from the wedding so we can get him out of there. I'll need some time to come up with a proper plan, but I think we can make it work."

"Its your show, Roman," the Samaritan declared, standing up and straightening his shirt once more, "The mission is yours to arrange. I'm giving you command...you have the strategic mind, so you figure it out. However, I'll still want whatever plan you come up with approved by me before I authorize it. You'll have at least six days to plan it before you'll need to get moving."

"Why so long?" Roman asked, "I can get this underway in two."

"Because I'll want you at full strength, and I'll be borrowing Tikhas for a complimentary mission first," turning to the drell, he then nodded and turned to the rest of the group, "With that said, you're all dismissed. Report to Krend to get whatever gear you'll need in order...anything you need, he can get as our armourer. Soon, my friends, the Crusader will be freed from the iron grip of the Herald's lies and falsehoods, and we will all reap the benefits of his salvation. The war begins in a week and a half...we should all be grateful that we're able to be a part of it. Tikhas, Rela...stay behind. I need to talk with both of you. The rest of you...good luck."

"Luck is for the unprepared," Roman saluted, "I'll stick to what I've got."

The Samaritan smiled, the two locking eyes before nodding in mutual admiration for one another. He had a feeling he was going to like this Roman. He was a man who held equal amounts of social integrity and martial skill, and he'd kill for the chance to see the man in action. He'd even join the squad on their mission if he could, but exposing himself was simply another volatile variable on a mission that was already too risky as it was. No, he would have to do with an after action report when it happened.

After Krato, Cann, Roman and Breen had left, the only members left in the room were Tikhas and Rela. Turning to them, he addressed Tikhas first, leaning across the desk to emphasize the importance he held over what he was about to order, "I have a mission that requires your skill set. I need you to go to the Citadel, and infiltrate Huerta Memorial hospital."

"What am I looking for?" Tikhas requested. He didn't object at all to the mission itself, to which the Samaritan was grateful.

"The Crusader's medical records," he revealed, "Once the Crusader has been secured and brought back here to Sanctum, we're going to need a full accounting of his medical history if we're going to begin the process of rehabilitating him. I won't give you details just yet, but it'll require delicate, and precise work. That's why we need those records. I have reason to believe his presiding doctor, a Doctor Christopher Stoneman, has recently transferred to Huerta, giving us access to those records. You are to find his office, get the documents, and return back to Sanctum with them. You will have exactly six days to pull this off...that's three days there, three days back. We're operating on a very tight schedule here, so there's no room for error. Can you get it done?"

There was a hint of a smile on Tikhas' lips, but the Samaritan couldn't tell if he imagined it or not, "No task is too difficult in the art of stealth, Mr. Samaritan. If you had asked me to kill the Council, I'd have asked in which order. Acquiring the Crusader's medical records will take me less than six days, you will see."

"The Crusader is counting on those records. You'll leave today," he ordered. He now turned to Rela, "And you...I want you to begin falsifying reports that I've been sighted on the Citadel, Earth...somewhere within Council space. The Council wants news of my whereabouts, and we're going to give it to them. All I need you to do is buy your team time to pull off the extraction without the Council watching like a hawk. Have them look in the cabinet, not under the bed."

"This won't be a problem," Rela assured him, "When I'm done, I'll even have the Shadow Broker chasing ghosts."

"Make sure of it," he emphasized, walking around the desk with his hands clasped behind his back, "We're finally on the brink of greatness, my friends. Glory awaits the Crusader, and it falls to us to kickstart the revolution. You will be the harbingers of the Advocation...don't let this honor go to waste. History will remember us, so let's make sure it gets a positive impression of our deeds. The war begins with your actions, and will end depending on their success. Make. It. Happen."

"We will not fail him," they both chanted to him, bowing, "Glory to the Crusader."

He bowed back, "Glory to the Crusader."

Moments later, Tikhas and Rela were also gone, off to complete the errands he had sent them on, leaving him to ponder in peace. He considered the long road that had led him to this point, and considered every single event that had happened to get him to this moment in history. It seemed odd to contemplate that, just a few months ago, he had been freed from a rehabilitation facility...and now he was spearheading the Advocation. He would have never thought himself as a liberator, but now that he was here, sitting in this seat, presiding over the establishment of an Exaltation squad, over Operation Witch Hunter...it seemed like nobody else would have done a better job.

_History will be made in this room, and the history books shall remember me as the man who saved the Crusader. I hope they remember me well._

Just as he considered taking a nap, exhaustion steadily overcoming him as the day wore on, he remembered one more item on his agenda that he had to address, and quickly sat back down, turning to the door, "Krend, come in."

The door shot open once more, admitting the massive krogan armourer. Stopping just shy of the front of his desk, he looked down at the Samaritan, standing at attention with his massive warhammer and shotgun tied to his back, "You have need of me?"

"I do," he declared, "I have an idea for a set of armor, and I'd like to run it by you."

"Whatever you need."

Further plans were made, and on the surface of Sanctum, as day turned to night, a war was finding its first roots. The Samaritan would indeed be remembered by history, as would the Shepardists, their sanctuary on Sanctum, and the actions they took next.

History remembered the third of February, 2188 very well. It was remembered as the day the war  _truly_ began, even if the galaxy didn't know it yet.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**Got this in by the end of the month, and by the skin of my teeth too.** _

_**Well, I've been really looking forward to writing this chapter, and I hope you can see why. The Exaltation squad is going to play a huge part in the story from this point on. There will be a couple more slow chapters before we get to the really heavy stuff, but I promise it'll be worth it in the end, don't you worry.** _

_**Tell me what you thought of the Exaltation squad in the review section. And yes, I will expand upon each of them as the story goes on. This chapter was just to give a general idea of who they are and what they do.** _

_**Well, next up are Flashpoint prompts 21 and 22. Good news for you guys, yeah?** _

_**Until next time,** _

_**Keelah se'lai, troopers!** _

_**Music suggestions:** _

**The First Incident (hospital): "Bridge of Death" by Hildur Guðnadóttir from the miniseries** _**Chernobyl** _ **.**

**Morning Love/Talk of Children: "Message From Home" by Hans Zimmer from the film** _**Interstellar.** _

**Exaltation Squad/Rescue Plan: "Solomon's Theme" by Johan Skugge and Jukka Rintamäki from the game** _**Battlefield 3.** _


	15. Hero's Exemplum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tikhas uncovers a secret. Conrad rises to the challenge.

" _If there have been any true saints or heroes among important figures in the history of philosophy, we would do well to entirely ignore their heroism and saintliness in studying their philosophical thoughts._ " - Allen W. Wood.

* * *

 _Somewhere on Rannoch - Date unknown_.

_At first, she rested nowhere. Her body was flying it seemed like: weightless and free to glide between the dimensions, restricted by no laws of physics or reality. Here, her own mental law reigned sovereign over all, and she could do as she pleased...or so it appeared._

_This illusion was promptly cast out. Her gossamery existence was ended as quickly as it began, and just like before, she had no memory of it occurring to begin with. All she knew was that she had been flying one minute, then falling the next, forgetting that she ever flew at all. She fell, but she did not scream. Her plummet was quick and terrifying, yet she did not flail her arms around or struggle for her life. Whether this was acceptance or some fatalist agreement with her body to capitulate to whatever happened next, she couldn't possibly know. She just kept falling...and falling...and falling..._

_Clouds parted, the air rushed by her skin, and the plummet felt as though it elongated for hours. But her fall was drawing to a close, and just as she had zoned out from her predicament, she was gently and rapidly brought back to focus, finally finding purchase on land. She was not obliterated upon impact as she should have for someone who had plunged twenty thousand feet to the ground. Her bones were not pulverized and her body did not explode from the pressure inside her body cascading throughout, ultimately resulting in her internal structure literally exploding from the tremendous crash._

_No, it was as if her fall never happened. Her landing was a gentle affair, carried out with her back landing squarely and firmly in the middle of a long field of grass, the stalks standing as tall as an adult krogan. She was not winded by it, and she took no injury from it...her graceful collapse was more like that of a feather being released, its lightweight carrying it gingerly and peacefully to its final resting place. Right there and then, it was decided that this place had no rules at all, and of that, she did not find herself caring._

_A strange realm indeed._

_She found her own reactions lacking. Whereas she would normally be analyzing her surroundings to find out where she was, her body seemed to have a mind of its own. She recognized, for instance, the field of stalks that was now calmly resting within. The ya-k were well known within the Scrolls of the Ancestors. When her people first stepped away from their hunter-gatherer mentality and developed their first agricultural tendencies, the ya-k were seen as the catalyst for the beginning of a new era. They were a source of food her people could rely on, and which didn't require precise survival skills and pack mentality to hunt down, destroy and consume. It was already there...its rich nutrition and sustenance just waiting to be plucked._

_It was little wonder her people had named them ya-k: 'fruit'. In the days of early quarian settlements, when her people still worshipped Shalah, Goddess of the World, these very stalks were seen as gifts to her people. A token of her appreciation. Of course, when this religion eventually died and gave way to the ancestor-reverence her people now practice today, they were simply seen as the seeds of her people's future. The path towards a new beginning. Whatever the case, the ya-k were an important part of Rannoch's history, and could be found across the planet._

_That also confirmed to her what she already knew: she was definitely still on Rannoch._

_However, the orange sky that towered above her in a nearly endless expanse and the ya-k stalks that surrounded her in a tall, thick perimeter weren't her main concern in that moment. Why she had not noticed this immediately upon opening her eyes was a mystery, but one thing was certain: she should have._

_She wasn't wearing a suit._

_Panic immediately set in, as it always did with quarians who found themselves without their one protection against the bacteria of the outside world that their fragile immune systems were vulnerable to. Her fear wasn't unfounded. Exposure to the outside world, even with all the enhancements the geth were currently making to their immune systems, would always lead to a grisly end. It would take years before it was safe to remove one's helmet, let alone shed their entire suit, even on Rannoch. No, the suits were a necessity for survival, regardless of the Migrant Fleet's obsolete purpose._

_She could feel prickles of dirt gluing to her skin as she lay within it. Raising her hands so she could see them, she gazed back at her bare, light grey hands, but frowned as she noticed they were now her people's more natural shade of purple. Grey skin had been the result of her people's lives being spent in suit, and without being exposed to sunlight, their skin became paler, resulting in the light grey she exhibited now. But what she saw was a light dab of purple. Not an exact match for her realk, which was a much darker shade of the color, but enough to match that of what her people's skin should like. In reality though, her skin shouldn't even begin to look like this for at least another decade or two..._

_She twisted her hands over to their other side, blinking as she tried to see if her vision was undergoing a form of hallucination, or if the sun's rays were causing her to see a different color than was present. But as she turned to examine them, the result was the same: purple everywhere. Even the slight freckles that dotted her body seemed present, and as she got more and more confused and scared, she found herself needing to stand up._

_Grabbing a nearby stalk for balance, she found it to be quite a bit more sturdy than she expected, and used it to speedily pull herself to her feet. Once she had done so, she found the ya-k to still be a full couple heads taller than she was, which truly emphasized just how tall these stalks truly were. But she wasn't paying attention to that just now. She had other concerns to attend to, like the lack of an enviro-suit._

_Looking down her arms, she found the tattoo-like markings that her people were naturally adorned with. She remembered that Shepard had commented on them as looking like tattoos, but she had explained that these markings were part of a quarian's biological makeup, and that the only ones that would be entirely artificial would be an additional marking added to the middle of her forehead: and that one was reserved for bondmates as a symbol of marriage._

_The more she looked, the more panicked she became. Not a single piece of her suit remained. As she looked down, she found herself to be wearing a jehni: clothing that quarian females wore before the Exodus, before suits were needed. To anyone else, it seemed like a single piece of large, white cloth that the body slipped into and then tightened at the front, covering most of the body itself. At the back it had a loose piece that could be flopped over the top of the head like a hood (which is what inspired the realk that quarian females still use today), allowing for some privacy to the wearer. As Tali checked, she indeed found the hood, and discovered that it was already over her head, with her long hair tied at the back._

_She wore no pants, and on her feet were what humans would call sandals. To quarians, they were called peni._

_Around her neck was a scarf, or the ancient realk, and its purple color, along with the swirl patterns, denoted her place in Clan Zorah. Every item of clothing Tali currently wore was anachronistic: out of place, and out of time. Instead of her suit, she was covered head-to-toe in the textiles of her ancestors. Its what Tali and every other adult quarian female would be wearing if her people hadn't been doomed to a life in envirosuits._

_The last thing she noted however was the lack of a helmet, and a face mask. Her face was totally exposed, available for all to see. Even now, as she instinctively tried to pick out and remove the dirt that had gotten into her realk, brushing off her back in addition to this, she could feel warm sea air, brought in from a nearby ocean most likely, brushing against her skin, and the unfiltered bitter scent of the ya-k filling her nostrils. She closed her eyes, holding up her arms. It was if she was trying to catch the breeze in some giant, invisible net so she could keep it all to herself._

_But no...she was doing what every quarian wanted to do. To experience_ _**all** _ _of the senses in glorious harmony. And here she was, doing exactly that: tasting the brine of sea air on her tongue, humming as bright sunlight warmed her skin, sniffing at the summertime aroma of the stalks, watching the clouds roll on by, and listening to the quiet, tranquil rush of the stalks brushing against each other as the wind snaps them back and forth in a methodical, pre-planned dance._

_It was beautiful. It almost made Tali forget why she was scared in the first place._

_But fear gave way to curiosity. Why wasn't she sick yet? Why was she wearing this ancient clothing? Didn't she just fall from the sky? Where was she, exactly?_

_The taste and smell of salty sea air confirmed to her already that she was near the ocean, so she had to be present along a coastline of some description. But due to the field of stalks around here, she couldn't paint an exact picture. As to why she had no suit...she was no longer questioning it. If it had been a threat, she would be dead already, yet she wasn't. Was this her future? Had the years of her life come and gone so quickly that she couldn't remember them?_

_More importantly, where was my neh'sah? She couldn't feel his presence nearby. Quarians could sense their mates, yet even as she sniffed, she failed to pick up his scent. Perhaps she had gotten lost. If so, escaping this field would be all the more prudent._

_With that, she made it a priority. She needed to find John. She needed to find home. Find out how much time had passed, what had happened, what was going on. If amnesia was the culprit, she would get to the bottom of it. She had many questions, and being the person she was, she wouldn't rest until answers to them were found and excavated in due order._

_In no particular rush to be free of the field, Tali found herself navigating her way through it quite ponderously and insouciantly. Her hands parted the stalks with care, her feet leaving behind muddied imprints upon the dirty pasture to mark her passing. She looked ahead the entire time, eyes trying to break through the impenetrable barrier in front of her to see if she could see an opening. But minutes went by, and nothing came of her search._

_Her wonder and awe gave way to irritation and impatience. She had spent long enough in this field, constantly moving forward, and yet it had failed to yield her a hasty exit. The ya-k no longer seemed inviting and protective: now they seemed intimidating, trapping her inside their confines like the walls to a prison. Her casuality gave way to haste, and her haste became urgency. She jogged down, and the gentle parting of the stalks had become swatting, her body bashing aside the ya-k as she unendingly pressed forward._

_No end in sight._

_Everything seemed to press down around her. Even as she ran, the stalks began to feel like they were getting closer and closer to her, to the point where she was no longer moving past them, but having to squeeze through the narrow gaps between. Even as he moved past, the light, feathery caress they left as they hit her skin was replaced with a lash, barbs seeming to form on their leaves as they rushed out to scar her face, her realk and hood all that kept them from taking her eyes. However, she could feel their bite through her clothing, and she felt it difficult to breathe as fear began to take hold._

_It only got worse. The stalks seemed to decay and blacken as she entered a sprint, and their decomposing flesh seemed to wriggle with diseased maggots that were not of her world. Their golden array became rotten and horrid, the rich malty smell becoming a pungent, vomit-inducing mildewy insense. Even now, it became less and less like her world, and she screamed as she looked down to find a giant, black spider crawling up her leg, followed by six more of its ilk. She desperately thrashed around, trying to swing the horrible creatures off, but her efforts were futile. Her only hope was to escape the field._

_But the longer it took, the less likely it seemed. The sun seemed to be going down, and with it, darkness was coming over the stalks. Tali, petrified of being trapped within the prison of wheat in complete darkness, revitalized her efforts to escape. She kept running, but as focused on that as she was, she failed to see what was coming just infront of her, and she groaned as she felt one of the plants shoot out, impacting her in the gut._

_She stopped completely. She felt the air expelled from her lungs, and as she looked down, she saw the plant impaled deep into her chest, blood oozing out._ _**Her** _ _blood._

_She screamed again, falling to her knees as she began to weep, feeling more of the plants descending upon her, their shadows widening in size as the darkness joined in expanding them to conquer what little light remained to shield here._

_But then the unexpected: a scream answered her back, and it wasn't her own._

_She closed her eyes, willing it to be over._

_So it was._

_When her eyes opened again, she was not surrounded by legions of spiders, maggot-infested and decomposing ya-k, or running through an eternal field of an ever darkening prison on her homeworld. No, she was back exactly where she had been before: on her back, eyes looking up at the sky, her arms splayed out in the dirt. The only difference was that she could see no sign of any ya-k, and the sun still hung brightly, its position in the sky showing it was nowhere near time for the night to take its toll._

_Hands reaching up to her face, she found none of the scratches that had been left on her person, and as she reached down to touch her stomach, she calmed down in knowing that she found no spiders or a plant embedded in her chest._

_It was just a nightmare. There were no spiders on Rannoch: no insect or bug life to speak of. Ya-k weren't sentient, and night was several hours away. She was safe. Nothing was wrong._

_She did note, however, that she still wasn't wearing a suit. She was still wearing a jehni, and as she wriggled her toes, she found her peni were still supporting her feet. She found little in this to complain about though, and while she felt the persistent need to question every single facet of this world that was out of place, her body was having none of it. She simply let her head fall back to the grass beneath her, resting where she lay. All five of her senses returned to their feast on her environment._

_No longer in a field of ya-k, she turned her head to see where she was. Endless, rolling plains of rocks and grass met her naked eye, and she could immediately tell, due to her intimate knowledge of this area as a result of her time spent in it, that she was near her home. She recognized where she was as being to the west of her home, and the distant rush of waves confirmed this. Even now, the sound of qui'tee squawking from their nests, a pair of bosh'tets screeching from their burrows, a herd of tilgra thundering across the plains, and the melody of a school of ozan singing to each other from the ocean could be heard combining as part of nature's symbiotic ecosystem._

_All she wanted to do was close her eyes and enjoy it. Free of her suit, enjoying her homeworld, and unbothered by the fringe annoyances of her day-to-day life. She could relax. Even the remnants of her past nightmare seemed not to bother her, although she would really need to ask Shepard just how much time had passed, because if she really was suffering from some sort of amnesia, she would need to catch up on what time she had lost, and what had hap-_

_A loud sound, seemingly drowning out, if not downright silencing, the surrounding wildlife, called out across the plains to her, choosing the quarian as its recipient. She immediately recognized it as a scream, and she knew this because it was the same one she had heard answer her call in the nightmare from before. The same tone, the same volume...and she knew it wasn't hers, because the scream was distinctly male...and in obvious distress._

_Her eyes shot open upon hearing it, the sound so painful and difficult to hear that it seemed to ring within her skull and even her soul. Every bone in her body even chilled at the hearing of it, and she knew by instinct alone that it couldn't have been anything good. Perhaps worse so, because the scream had triggered a primal instinct within her. The instinct to react. To protect what was hers. To defend her neh'sah._

_There was only one person's sound that could trigger that reaction in a quarian._

_Their bondmate. John was the one screaming._ _**Her** _ _John._

_Obviously, no thinking in this situation was necessary. Her body and mind were one in what needed to be done in response to this, and so she answered the call. Darting up with the speed of a qui'tee taking flight, she quickly stood up and rushed down the side of the hill she had taken refuge on, feet kicking up dirt and crushing grass as she made her way down, making a run towards her house._

_It really didn't take much to find the structure, as it was nearby. The two-storey house rested just a kilometer away from where she currently rested, and at full speed, quarians were quite fast. Their origins as hunter-gatherers necessitated this action, and when a quarian female had gone on the hunt, her speed could only be matched by other creatures of her kind, including the four-legged tilgra that wondered the plains. Suffice to say, their powerful legs could carry them great distances, and afforded them monolithic bursts of speed when required. Just as Tali was calling upon now, and as she had used in the past. The only difference was she wasn't wearing armor or carrying weapons that would otherwise weight her down, and thus slow her speed._

_If a tilgra was to pop its head up and turn around, it would see a single quarian, their hood flapping in the wind, moving at 57.5 kilometers per hour. At that speed, no human could possibly hope to keep up with her. Humans were said to be able to run at a total speed of 45kph, and that was just the highest recorded speed one of their athletes had been clocked at. Not even Shepard could keep up with her despite his cybernetics, which only really served to allow him to run for longer, but not faster. So really, a quarian female was unmatched at this speed by other races. Turians and salarians were the only ones that even came close._

_The distance seemed trivial when going at such a rate. Whereas moments before she had been lying on a hill, a kilometer away from her home, she was now mere seconds away from it, racing up towards the front door, which had been left ajar. When she reached the front porch, she allowed herself to slow down, and by the time she reached the steps, she was now walking, chest heaving from the effort. She found it odd that the open door showed no signs of forced entry, and the lack of splintered wood on the floor or any sign of damage to the door meant there weren't any intruders...or they had simply walked inside._

_No...Shepard wouldn't scream over an intruder. Shepard wouldn't scream...at all. I've never heard him scream, nor do I want to. Its such a concrete wall of emotion that its rare to see even tears. No, if that truly was Shepard's scream, and her mind and soul told her it was true, then something far more serious was going on here, and she needed to intervene quickly._

_Her celerity only increased with each passing moment that her bondmate was not within sight and unharmed. Her pace quickened once more, and upon reaching the door, she allowed it to swing open quietly, not wanting to alert whatever hostile influence might possibly reside within. Stepping past the threshold, she tensed up and tried to see what sound she could hear, but she heard nothing. No more screams either. Just nothing._

_She feared she was too late, but she sensed her neh'sah was near. So she pressed on, eager to find him, to know if he was safe or not. And to kill whoever hurt him, if that was the case. She would not tolerate any harm brought to her husband. Those who dared to cross that line would be dealt with in short order, and become introduced intimately with her shotgun._

_There was a bark, and while Tali's fidgety nerves had her jumping to action upon every sound she heard, she was able to tersely and instantly calm down as she saw Urz emerge from the doorway behind her, the creature's stance and posture radiating mixed parts concern for his owner, and joy at seeing Tali. Raising a finger to her lips to silence the fishdog, she motioned for him to follow her inside, knowing the varren will come to her aid should she need it. However, she found it peculiar that, with the door already open and the sounds of Shepard's scream carrying across the landscape around the house, that he hadn't already._

_In fact,_ _**none** _ _of this felt right. Tali had a seriously bad feeling about this, and that feeling chilled her to the bone. The silence was far too deafening. No sign of intrusion either. And Urz didn't seem to think anything was wrong either. The walls seemed to warn her of this as she moved past, yet she took no heed of them, as looking for her husband and finding out if he was alright was her main objective. Even if her senses were telling her there was more to this, it wouldn't matter to her._

_Her intuition would soon be proved right. As the quarian rounded the corner into the main atrium, she could hear a low moan. It was a pitiful sound, resonating with despair and hopelessness. The sound continued, and it felt like a dull howl echoing through the house, keeping a low tone but seeming cavernous and invading. Despite her judgment telling her to walk away, she moved towards the source in the living room, summoned like a me'ega to sunlight. Urz trodded along at her side...or at least she thought he did, because she wasn't really paying him much attention, finding herself driven by morbid curiosity._

_As she approached, she noticed the shutters to the living room were half-closed, the frosted glass obscuring her view inside. This didn't dissuade her, and she continued to walk forward mindlessly, and despite not knowing what lay behind its opaque curtain of ambiguity, she felt tears trailing down her cheek, a well of emotions building up inside her that assumed the worst and was preparing her for its ferocity. Just as she reached the shutters, the sound she heard didn't dispel her trepidation._

_"Nooooooo..." she heard. The voice was unmistakably Shepard's, and she felt like she had been stabbed in the heart to hear it. She had no idea what horror awaited her in that room, but it was clear to her now that Shepard hadn't been screaming out to her...he had been screaming out of logubrious sorrow. Despite this knowledge, she did not hesitate in learning the truth of her summons, and she grabbed the shutters, swinging them open in both directions._

_What she found confused her for a moment. The living room was empty save for a single individual crouching down in the middle. They had their back turned to her, and they hardly stirred or moved in response to her loud arrival, but she immediately recognized him as Shepard due to the black-and-red shirt he wore, the cap fitted over his head, and his large figure. He seemed to be hunched over something on the floor, and she could hear sobbing from where he sat, but she simply couldn't discern what it was that he was crying over._

_What could cause him to break down like this? Her neh'sah was in distress and needed her._

_So she didn't hesitate. When he still didn't turn to her, she stepped towards him, thinking that he may not have heard her entrance, and reached out a hand to grip his shoulder. Lightly, she spoke, "John, neh'sah? What's wrong? Please, look at me so we can-"_

_He turned with a speed she hadn't expected, and with a rage and severe platitude that shocked her, enough so that she had to take a step back, retracting her hand instantly like it had been placed on hot coals. The face that looked back at her held none of the benign, good-natured temperance she had come to expect from her bondmate. No, instead the face was one of angry contempt, with simmering saturnine resting within his eyes. His austere yet still presence wasn't helped by the heavy red rings underneath his eyes, and the visible evidence of tears that had worn his cheeks and left him looking ghoulish and lifeless. His expression carried with it a question that wasn't yet asked, despite feeling directly pointed at her._

_She didn't know why he held this disgust for her, or why it seemed to be her presence that was causing him pain...but when she saw what rested in his arms, horror creeped up inside. Dread consumed her like a macabre illness, breaking free of its prison and corrupting her mind, body and soul. Tears flowed freely, and she barely paid any further attention to her surroundings as her focus zoned in on Shepard's arms. For if she did, she would notice Urz was no longer there...and probably never had been. All she could do was shake uncontrollably, her stomach bulging and deflating in rapid succession, flowing with it a series of powerful stomach cramps that overwhelmed her with their severity._

_"Why Tali?" his words bit into her psyche, mocking and taunting. They carried with them venom, and for whatever reason, Shepard's voice sounded strange...like it was two voices, Shepard's and another's, speaking at once, with the same conduit. Even as she collapsed to her knees, sobbing and groaning in agony pathetically, he only cocked his head at her, unphased, any of the sympathy her husband had for her fading away as he tormented her, "Is this what you wanted? If you weren't ready...you should have said so._ _**You** _ _poisoned our future._ _**You** _ _."_

_In his arms, a tiny creature. A creature so tiny it couldn't have been any bigger than Shepard's arm. This creature was still, unmoving. By all purposes...dead. Its skin was a pulsing red, looking almost like radiation burns, and its limbs were grotesquely disproportionate to its head, seeming like stubby twigs more than they did legs or arms. The head was far too large for the body it was propped up on, and its eyes were permanently closed, the rest of its body barely developed._

_But this was no random creature Shepard held in his arms. If its very nature didn't give it away...the three-fingered hands and three-toed feet most certainly did._

_It was his son. No,_ _**their** _ _son. But it did not live. Blood, dried and otherwise, stuck and dripped down their body, foul in smell and horrid in appearance._

 _The fate was obvious. The baby's body was underdeveloped...and out of the mother's body._ _**Her** _ _body. The baby was a stillborn._

_She wept, looking upon her child as it lay dead in Shepard's arms, and absorbing the ruthless and unforgiving words of punishment Shepard threw at her stingingly, allowing it to poison her mind thoroughly. As she looked down, she cried even harder as she felt a damp patch grow between her legs, watching the section of the jehni between her legs begin to soil as the cloth turned red, and blood trickled down her legs._

_"All your fault. All your fault. ALL YOUR FAULT!"_

_Tali threw her head up into the air, bloodied hands covering her eyes to shield her from the image of her dead child, and screamed in staggered bursts in a woeful effort to shut out his words. But they only amped up in intensity, and it was then that she finally recognized the voice that was in conjunction to Shepard's, the dual tone distinctly female._

_It was hers._

* * *

_Shepard Residence, Rannoch - February 5, 2188 - Two days later_ _._

Even as she woke up, her own screaming and Shepard's taunts seemed to linger long afterwards, now reduced to mere whispers and recollections within her mind. As such, her panic didn't fully dissipate, her awakening precipitated by a cold sweat drenching her skin, and an intense headache booming within her skull, making it feel as if there was a war going on inside it.

As before, she wasn't completely aware of where she was, and her eyes rapidly darted around the room in search for clues. Like the first two times, she was lying down, her head looking up. The only difference here was that her sight was met with a wooden roof, and she was greeted with the soft, padded and silky feel of bedsheets rather than the cold, hard and filthy ground of a pasture. However, none of those truly assured her the nightmare was over until she looked down to see she was still in her envirosuit. Her jehni were gone, and her metal boots were in place of where her peni had been before. As strange as it seemed, the sight of seeing her suit instead of bare skin did more to soothe her panicked nerves than being in her own bed ever did.

Sufficiently satisfied that her nightmare was now over, Tali sat up, curling her legs back so she could sit in a fetal position, her back resting back against the bedframe. As her suit slowly and arduously attended to the task of scrubbing her suit of the sweat that had gathered there, she turned to the right side of the bed where Shepard usually was, finding nothing but a large indent in the padding and a crease in the sheets as evidence that he had ever slept there. Given the sun's position in the sky, it was likely Shepard had gotten up long before her, and had simply allowed her to sleep in.

Frowning, she pulled up her omni-tool and found that not only had her alarm gone off, but the sound had been at maximum. Somehow her nightmare had overpowered her alarm's ability to wake her up, and she had slept in for an extra two hours as a result. She cringed at the time she had lost as a result, letting her omni-tool evaporate as she returned to staring at the end of her bed hollowly.

She wracked her mind to try and find any sort of meaning for the vivid images she had experienced...and experience she most certainly  _had_. If she closed her eyes, she could still picture the image of that stillborn baby in Shepard's arms with crystal clarity, and the plant impaling her. She shuddered at the thought of it, but couldn't derive any meaning from it. It had all seemed random, like an assault of iconography that held no meaning or context. The nightmarish ordeal had simply seemed like a horror show of her subconscious' own making, and as a result, lacked any depth or reasoning behind it.

Whatever the case, she wasn't really getting anywhere in trying to discern a pattern, and her thoughts were quickly wondering elsewhere as she heard a voice downstairs, coming up the stairs and filtering into the room through the open bedroom door. She frowned, turning to hear what it was, her dream now almost entirely forgotten. It remained that way once she realized the muffled sound was definitely a single voice, and wasn't coming through a vidscreen.

Her curiosity once more piqued, the quarian departed from the bed, coming to stand and slowly making her way out of the room and heading down the stairs with the barest of tip-toe stealth.

As per usual, the creaking of the wood on the stairs made it difficult to hide one's descent, and might as well have given her approach away right off the bat. But Tali had learnt the odd trick or two from Kasumi, and by deliberately reducing the weight she placed on each foot, she was able to dampen the sound of her impacts on the floor. By the time she arrived on the ground floor, it would be highly unlikely that anyone other than one with a keen sense of hearing would have detected her.

As she descended however, her fiance's voice could be heard much more clearly, as well as the words leaving his mouth, although she really only picked up snippets of what he was truly saying, "...Tali'Zorah, you make my life complete-argh. No, that sounds  _too_ cheesy. She'd hate that."

_I wonder what he's talking about? He mentioned my name. Is he talking to someone? Who, in that case?_

There was something familiar about the words he was perusing however, and she chose to pay closer attention to them as she reached the last step, carefully placing her feet on the floorboards as she listened closely to what was seemingly a monologue being presented to himself. As she neared the corner of the room however, just before entering the living room itself, the words she next picked up on caused her heart to skip a beat as she heard it, especially because had now realized the context behind them at last.

He cleared his throat, verbally recovering from his last attempt, and continued, "I, John'Shepard vas Normandy nar Fritz Lang, take you, Tali'Zorah vas Normandy nar Rayya, to be my lawfully wedded wife...wait, no...bondmate. Lawfully wedded...shit, lawfully  _bonded_ bondmate. Lawfully bonded bondmate. No, that's  _definitely_  not right. Fuck sake..."

She giggled lightly under her breath at the visible frustration in Shepard's tone as he tried to check himself and his words, and how he was failing miserably. Wanting to get a better view, she poked her head around, surprised to find Shepard standing in the middle of the living room, back turned to her, head hunched over and looking down at what she assumed to be his notes on a datapad. Involuntary flashes of her nightmare came and went, dreadfully reminded of a similar image of Shepard in the middle of their living room, back turned to her, hunched over-

But the flashes did not linger, for she had tossed them aside, and they already seemed to be a distant memory more so than a recent purgatory. Her mind was solely on Shepard and the words he spoke, and more specifically, their importance. What she had initially assumed to be self-addressed ramblings were actually, at least from her point-of-view, part of a rehearsal. A rehearsal of the very wedding vows he would soon pledge to her as they got married within a week.

Barely more than a week away. Time waited for no one, and it had gone by fast.

Unable to see her, Tali risked stepping out from her hiding place and leaned against the doorway itself, arms crossed and head resting against the archway with a tug of a smile. Shepard still didn't turn around, so she continued to stand in total silence, her amusement kept secret, as her human boyfriend jotted irkingly at his datapad to correct his mistakes. It took what seemed like minutes for him to make these corrections, but when he finally did, he straightened his posture once more, clasping his hands infront of him and straightening his shirt. Someone who didn't know the context of Shepard's idle actions would have thought it weird, of course, but it only caused Tali's smile to widen.

He wasn't just rehearsing the lines. He was acting like he was at the wedding itself, and thus was also practicing his posture and stance. A true rehearsal, really.

"Right, get this fucking right this time," he muttered sarcastically, just barely heard by the quarian. Another clearing of the throat signalled his continuance, voice becoming far more serious in tone, "Tali'Zorah, you make my life complete. You make me feel whole, you make me feel safe, you comfort me in ways only you possibly could. It would be my honor, before the Ancestors of the quarian race and the Ancestors of Clan Zorah, to declare my love for you. To declare my undying pledge to hold you, comfort you, protect you and, above all, be there for you for the times you need it the most. I, John'Shepard vas Normandy nar Fritz Lang, take you, Tali'Zorah vas Normandy nar Rayya, to be my eternal bondmate, souls tied together and unable to part."

With each word he spoke, she could feel herself tearing up, the significance and sincerity of their message filling her with pride and joyful abandon. She didn't cry however, not even when Shepard exhaled deeply and lifted up his datapad to check he had perfected the speech. No, instead she raised her hands and began to clap, her laughter becoming unrestrained. Her laughter wasn't mocking however...it was complimentary.

This, of course, inevitably draws Shepard's attention. He turns around almost immediately, and upon finding Tali standing in the corner, clapping away and half-laughing, she could have sworn that he blushed. It was hardly noticeable, and she wasn't sure she had actually seen it at all, but what she did unmistakably see was embarassment, and he was poor at hiding it. He slid his datapad into his pocket, as if doing so would destroy any evidence of this event taking place, and he rubbed the back of his neck as he doubled down on this, awkwardly trying to draw attention away from Tali had witnessed, "Tali...I didn't hear you come in. Um...how long were you standing there?"

If her nightmare had planned to return to inflict more of its taint on her hours awake in the real world, the sight of Shepard's expression ruined those chances entirely. The Shepard of her dream held a cruel face full of malice and bitter resentment, his eyes twisted in a scowl of animosity and his tongue lashing out with hurtful, contemptuous dialogue that cut deep into her soul. It had been a merciless slaughter, full of poison and determined to destroy her will. He was a completely different person.

But the Shepard here was a far cry from that vessel of hatred and spite. When he looked at her, his expression didn't harden, it softened. The gentle and caring man she remembered was what stood before her, not the crooked pasquinade that her innermost superego had painted of him. In the presence of this Shepard, she felt safe and loved, not reviled and hated. No, any semblance of that hellscape was gone from her mind, replaced by the love she had for her future husband.

"Got up a few minutes ago and heard you talking down here," she shrugged, still giggling as she stepped towards him, "Didn't want to interrupt."

He scoffed, shaking his head, "I hoped getting up early would give me extra time to practice before you got up. I'll admit, I wasn't expecting you to oversleep, but that certainly helped too. Gave me extra time...not that it mattered. Now my visage is forever ruined. No doubt you'll tell everyone Commander Shepard is a big ol' softie now who pledges his love to you from noon 'till sunset."

She snorted, dismissing that notion with a flagrant swing of her hand, as if his argument was a fly that needed swatting out of the way, "Oh please, the entire crew already knows you're a big softie. Remember John...we did a really poor job of hiding it."

"Thanks for reminding me of that," he visibly cringed, his awkwardness forgotten as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in while her hands landed on his shoulders, not at all resistant to the action, "I think Zaeed was threatening to break my arm if, and these were his words, 'strip the suit and fuck the stress out of each other already.' He had a point, though. I think even  _we_ were getting sick of it by the end."

"Oh really?" Tali dryly replied, rolling her eyes, "John, we were all but holding hands by the time we finally came out with it. Gabby and Ken cleared engineering  _the moment_ you stepped inside that day, because they knew exactly what you planned to say to me. The entire crew saw it coming.  _We both_ saw it coming. I just think we pretended to act surprised so we didn't completely look like a pair of idiots."

He chuckled, "Good thing we finally did, then. Not sure where I'd be if I hadn't."

"Me neither," she complimented.

"Sooooo..." he drawled, looking at her with a hint of worry, "What did...what did you think? Of what I said?"

She just smiled, reaching up to tap her mask to his head, "I'll let you know when the time comes."

He raised an eyebrow playfully at that, "Being all secretive, are we?"

She just giggled, "Yep. And before you ask...I'm not telling you what I've got planned to say, either."

He groaned jokingly, "Damn, the anticipation will simply  _kill me_. How will I be able to survive without knowing what my wife has planned for me?"

She poked his nose with a finger, wagging it disapprovingly, "Not your wife  _yet_. Let's save those terms for when we've earned them, John."

"Oh, I think I know how to earn them alright," he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Tali already knew exactly what he meant, not requiring the hand that slipped down her waist to squeeze at a particular body part for her to understand it fully.

She sighed, wacking his arm as she pulled away from him, "Do human men always have their mind in the gutter?"

"Only where beautiful women are involved," he winked, the smirk on his face refusing to go away. Sometimes he could be infuriating, even if his compliments could be endearing.

And she had to admit...a bit of her did like it when he treated her like that. Beautiful. Desired. It had been difficult to fathom in the early days of their relationship: the idea of a human male wanting a woman trapped in a envirosuit and finding her attractive, but once she got over that self-doubt, it became something she enjoyed hearing immensely. To feel wanted, especially by your boyfriend, was always a desirable trait.

Before she could mouth a reply however, a bang could be heard at the door, turning both their heads. The bang was followed by a series of scratching noises and, finally, a chorus of loud barking. They sighed, then laughed as they pulled apart, Shepard heading towards the door.

Urz was hungry, and it  _was_ breakfast time.

"You hungry?" Shepard asked, "I'm willing to cook up something. I'm no gourmet chef like you, but I'm decent."

She understood the remark, picking up a pillow and throwing it at him, which the human quickly ducked to avoid, laughing all the way, "You are a horrible man, mocking your wife's cooking like that!"

His laughter only continued, even as he opened the door and was charged by several hundred pounds worth of large varren, "Hey, you haven't earned that title yet!"

"I won't earn it at all, John'Shepard vas Normandy, if you mock me like this!" she was joking of course, but she couldn't refuse poking back at him, her own smirk forming.

"Then I best make that breakfast!" he shouted in reply, "Our marriage may depend on it!"

Tali just laughed, making her way over to the kitchen. Any remaining memory of that nightmare had been pushed aside and replaced by the overriding joy of her upcoming marriage. She still wasn't sure what the nightmare had meant, or what its significance was at a time like this, but it didn't matter. It could have been post-traumatic stress left over from the Reaper War...Shepard himself had admitted to suffering from similar episodes from time to time.

It was nothing to worry about, she was sure. And such thoughts would fall away in due time.

She need only wait them out, and hope the nightmare doesn't return.

* * *

 _CSS Normandy SR-2, in orbit over Rannoch - February 5, 2188 - Six minutes later_.

All was quiet in the mess hall. The night shift was operating with a skeleton crew due to the  _Normandy_  being stationed over Rannoch, and so most of the crew that were scheduled to be on were sleeping or in their quarters talking. Dinner had come and gone, and even their new chef (Gardner had transferred to the  _Stockholm_ with Adams after being given an official Alliance commission) had decided to call it an early night. There wasn't a soul in sight to be seen, and the lights had been dimmed to half brightness, casting small shadows over the room. It was completely empty.

Except for one turian seated at the main table, head rested on one hand and the other holding up his omni-tool as he flicked through a message he had been in the process of reading.

_"...need not remind you of your duties as a Spectre, and what is expected of you. We accept that your friendship and service under ex-Spectre Shepard has put you in this position, and do not take this as a sign that we disapprove. After all, as you've read so far, your temporary leave has been approved. However, remember that the Address has not eliminated the threat poised by the Faith, and that the Normandy will eventually need to return to pursuing the Samaritan._

_As we've stated, you will be granted nine days of leave from this point forward. No more than that. Upon the tenth day, we expect to see you returning to the Citadel for further assignment pending your return. We also expect that Spectre Williams and Spectre Churchill heed this call as well. We do not understand Spectre Churchill's attachment to all this, but we've accepted her absence all the same._

_\- Councilor Valern Onoke, Citadel Office of the Salarian Union."_

Garrus just sighed, shaking his head as he exited the message. He rolled his eyes, having expected this exact kind of reaction from the Council.

_Typical of the Council to get antsy about this, but I can't say I blame them. Three of their spectres disappearing to attend a wedding on the other side of the galaxy in the midst of a crisis, especially when they're short on spectres as it is, would be frustrating if I were them. Spirits, I'm surprised they approved our leave at all, even for that length of time. They must really be confident that Shepard nailed the Samaritan to a wall with his speech._

In all honesty, Garrus was in agreement. Shepard finally emerging from the wood work to disavow and disown the Shepardist movement would be, at least from a religious standpoint, an existential crisis of epic proportions for the Faith. They had vowed to exalt their 'Crusader' and follow his word, and now that they had finally heard it, they were being told to disband and cease all activities. I mean, what can you do then? You can't claim to follow the Crusader's orders, and then when you finally hear them, ignore those orders because they're not what you wanted to hear. The Shepardists were a devout lot, as Garrus had learned from his brief visit to Mankins' compound on Omega.

Suffice it to say, they had probably seen the end of organized Shepardist activities. The Samaritan might continue on with a few scant deniers, but the bulk of their organization would collapse under the weight of this devastating blow to their ideology, and any threat they posed in general would dissolve as a result of this. This exact thinking was probably why the Council were so lenient: the Samaritan was no longer an immediate, actionable threat, and so they were willing to be a little complacent. The pursuit would continue, but with his greatly diminished resources, it was safe to say that the Samaritan's cult would soon be, if it wasn't already, reduced to a mere footnote in history.

And to think...all it took was Shepard saying a few words. One speech is all it took. To think that exact action could have stopped so many things from happening was too large a thought to ponder. It suggested complacency as the key reason for the past month or two of escalating tensions, and that was an irksome thought indeed. No matter how true it may have been, Garrus was long past being sick of knowing that fact.

_Shepard fucked up. At least he admitted to it in the end and made something out of it. Now he can have that sliver of peace he's wanted for years and I can relax and watch my friend enjoy it. Actually, I don't think I've rested at all since the Reaper War broke out. Non-stop work to be done, I guess. If its not fighting battles, then its calibration and reports to file out. And then after the war...construction efforts, logistical handling, more reports...then I became a spectre, and any hope of actual rest was thrown out the window._

Even now, he was almost in constant correspondence with other spectres and the Council in regards to his activities. He should have applied for this leave four days ago, just as Ashley and Churchill had done, but he had so many things on his mind that he simply forgot about it. Now, with the Council finally off his back and not having to worry about another Shepardist escalation...he could finally sit back and rest. Something he had sorely needed for a while, and could only now afford to indulge.

It had been four days since the  _Normandy_ arrived over Rannoch, and four days since Garrus had last seen the surface of the planet or visited it in any sort of fashion. Adarinus, of course, had been shuttling people to and from the planet below, while also transporting supplies to the surface in preparation for the wedding. It was going to be quite a large affair, and the  _Normandy_ was willing to supply whatever it could for the festivities. Many of Shepard's former friends and allies would be attending, and if it wasn't already obvious, the entire crew of the  _Normandy_ would be there for it as well. Garrus had even pitched in with security measures, even if such an action was unnecessary given just how security the wedding would have already. He chuckled just thinking about it, a light sound that he kept to himself in his lonely corner of the room.

_Krogan commandos. A battalion of geth infantry. Quarian marines. I wonder what Shepard will think about all that attention. His wedding will probably be the most secure event in the galaxy by the time it happens. Isolated from the rest of the galaxy, and protected by krogan, geth and quarians. Oh, and an entire fleet in orbit blockading the planet, ensuring that would-be assassins or party-bombers can come in and ruin the fun. How nice._

Garrus felt safe just thinking about it. One of the few times where he could go to the surface of any planet and not be wearing armor, or carrying weapons of some art. He'd even be leaving his sidearm behind, Kasumi having convinced him against it. The security was there for a reason, and although he was very reluctant to admit it, any additional protection he added would be unnecessary indeed.

Turning off his omni-tool, he briefly considers going up to the captain's cabin to get some rest, but the sound of footsteps behind him quickly dispel that consideration, especially once he notices they are approaching him from behind. It was clear he would be going nowhere anytime soon.

"Hey there," Kasumi announced, pulling out the seat next to him and plopping herself down next to it. As he turned, even in the low lighting of the room, he could see that her hood was down, her brown eyes and fair complexion easily noticeable despite the room's lack of light. She had a small smile cornering her lips, and her arms were crossed over her breasts, feet kicking up onto the table, "Were you reading anything important?"

He shook his head, leaning back in his seat so he could be eye level with her, "Just the Council approving our leave. Nothing on the Samaritan, if that's what you meant."

The thief just nodded succintly, "It's not, but I guess its nice to know we don't have to worry about him anymore. At least not for now."

"His time is coming," Garrus assured her, now crossing his own arms, cracking his neck to release all the tension that had built there from huddling over his omni-tool for hours on end, "Only so many places he can hide before we catch him. His own followers might even rat him out, now that they know he lied to them about Shepard."

"That would certainly make our job easier," the thief acknowledged, her smile extending, "But the chase is  _far_  more exciting."

"I thought you preferred  _being_  chased? Isn't that where you get your thrill from?"

"Well, I've had to adjust a little," Kasumi laughed, pulling up her hood to sheathe her face, once again shrouding it in that mystery that he had admittedly found alluring, "I've had to make a few career changes thanks to Shep. I have to temper my thirst for adventure by reading some crime novels now. Not as exhilirating as doing it in person, but they have their moments."

"I'm sure they do," he muttered in response.

Kasumi wasn't a fan of silence when talking to people, so whatever solitude might have been found to exist in the room for more than a few seconds was dashed as she spoke again, hands now clasped in her lap and one of her feet dangling back and forth absentmindedly, "Still can't get quite get over that Tali and Shep are getting married. I know its a fairly normal thing for couples to do when you love each other that much, but I never would have seen Shep, or any of us really, settling down. Whenever I think of weddings for our group of misfits, I always think back to the days of the Collectors and the Reapers...never would imagined it, would you?"

He had to concede her point. Back then, things were a lot different. The galaxy was in a grim state despite its squeaky clean veneer. The galaxy had moved on from the Battle of the Citadel far too quickly, and its effects weren't nearly as far reaching as they should have been. Shepard, most of the crew and the first  _Normandy_ was destroyed a month later, his team was disbanded, and the Council doubled down on ignoring the Reaper threat, even ceasing their own involvement in the cleanup operations the Alliance had begun to find the last pockets of geth heretic resistance and eliminate them. For two whole years, Garrus had felt like their work was for nothing, and that there would be nobody to challenge the Reaper's arrival.

But then Shepard came back, and he was working with Cerberus. Garrus was ecstatic to see his friend alive: so was everyone that had known him. His return was vexxed the Council, especially now that they had to explain why they threw him under the rug, but he had started kicking ass once more. Garrus and Tali didn't hesitate, when they could, to join him again. But there were new faces to their struggle now. An old enemy had become a grudging ally, and a new ship, crew and squad provided their own challenges to overcome. Back then, it had seemed like an unwanted distraction to have to become accustomed to this new setup, even though now he couldn't imagine what it was like without them.

 _Especially_  without Kasumi.

The point was...they were practically all workaholics. Garrus was constantly working, Shepard was constantly planning, and Tali was continually prioritizing everybody but herself. Even the new crew members were always busy doing something. None of them really had time to just sit down and talk, rest or hang out. Shore leave had seldom been explored, and when it was, it was by virtue of command shoving it down their throats. The concept of rest, relaxation and even  _retirement_ was a ludicrous, unrealistic idea to them. They simply couldn't picture it. Especially not for people who all expected to be dead by the time the Reapers were finally defeated for good.

So yes...Kasumi was right. To be in a galaxy free of the Reaper threat, to finally have little to know stakes guiding their paths...to see two of his best friends getting married and ready to settle down, especially given their history with prioritizing work over indulgence...it was an alien experience he had yet to enjoy. Yet here they were, over a planet that hadn't seen organic life for 300 years, waiting for those two friends to join their lives together.

"No, I couldn't have," he admitted, turning to face her fully, "I don't think any of us could have. Every minute of every day of our lives has spent at constant war. Geth, Collectors, Reapers...you name it, and we've been at war with it. Victory after victory just felt like stepping stones to a larger island. Now that we're finally here...well, I guess it really was the only ending Shepard was going to accept."

"And Tali," Kasumi giggled, "I love that girl to bits, and its nice seeing her so happy. Seeing her in the medical bay after we had just evacuated from the Beam...that was hard to watch. The crying, the violence...but seeing her mood change once we found him was just...perfect. They deserve each other. To settle down. If anyone does, its them."

He nodded, finding no reason to object to the thief's logic. Shepard had spearheaded the entire effort from the beginning and Tali had been his rock that kept him close to home. There were many times where Shepard's resolve had begun to crumble, but then the next day, he'd be closer to fine than he had been the day before. Nobody needed to guess why this was...because the quarian engineer going up to his cabin was all the confirmation they need. They had suffered immensely, and the amount of close calls where either of them were killed...it was enough to give someone a heart attack.

"Yeah...its been a rough ride," he commented, reaching up and squeezing the thief's shoulder, "For all of us."

"No rest of us though. We've still got a Samaritan to catch," the thief rightly pointed out.

He grunted in response, but otherwise said nothing. His mind was too busy lingering on what Kasumi had said before...about settling down. He remembered a similar comment Shepard had made about him and Kasumi. It had been an offhand comment, one meant in jest, and as a result not to be taken seriously. Garrus had laughed it off, but what the human had said had truly struck a cord within him. The idea of settling down had been something he considered many times. Kasumi was by no means his first girlfriend, and many turian women had wanted tie the knot...and he'd always been afraid to do so. Garrus wasn't the kind of person who envied physical attachments. Too many strings to have to worry about.

He liked being a free spirit. Able to take off at a moment's notice, no goodbyes needed. That had partly changed when he met Shepard however, but the underlying belief stood out. He had a brief stint of feelings for Tali during their time fighting Saren, but they never developed anywhere, largely because he saw her attentions were elsewhere. After that...he couldn't think of any woman in their crew who grabbed his attention before Kasumi finally did.

Their relationship had started out much slower than Shepard and Tali's, and it most certainly hadn't been love at first sight. The two had avoided each other initially, mostly because Kasumi was hesitant at integrating with a new crew and found it even more difficult to shed her habits of sneaking around, making her hard to track down. And Garrus' C-Sec instincts simply told him he couldn't trust someone who made thievery their way of life.

But as fate would have it, the two would end up talking far more often, either because Shepard chose them both to be part of ground missions, or because they'd both be present for poker games in the Lounge. Eventually, they shed their initial reluctance to talk with each other, and started conversing more often. He found their style of banter to be similar, and her cloak combined with his marksmanship quickly turned them into an ideal partnership in combat. By the time of the Reaper War, they were close friends. And in the end, their relationship didn't really have much of a catalyst...there was no spark. Just, one day, Kasumi kissed him on the mandibles. He couldn't remember what caused it, but he did remember reciprocating it. And just before the Battle of London...well, he remembered that night quite well. Stress and anticipation was running high that night, and the entire crew had been looking for outlets. He imagined Shepard and Tali weren't far apart that night either.

Since then, he had been reconsidering his views on settling down...and on marriage. He liked Kasumi...and he'd be lying if he said he didn't love her. However, their relationship didn't seem to have any defined parameters, and was limited largely to spur-of-the-moment encounters, the odd kiss here and there, and the occasional 'I love you', but said in a vague enough way to be construed as something else. So, really, if an outsider was to judge their relationship from the outside, they'd find nothing of particular interest.

But Kasumi was the first woman in his life that made him rethink what his future might look like. Would he retire anytime soon? Probably not, but the idea of settling down simply wasn't as farfetched in his mind as he had previously thought in the past. The true question here was...

...would Kasumi be as open to it as he was?

His mind figured it was worth a try...he just wished his body had chosen to wait before blurting it out, "What do you think...about settling down?"

The question clearly caught Kasumi offguard, as the thief blinked several times as she tried to comprehend the reasons for the question alone. When she saw that he wasn't going to elaborate, she turned back to the table, a laugh forming in her throat, "Me? Settle down? I don't know if you've forgotten Garry, but I'm a thief. A kleptomaniacal connoisseur. I've built a life on running around and going from planet to planet. I don't think 'settling down' is on my to-do list, and if it was, its at the end of it."

He shrugged, pushing forward with his pointed trivia, "I used to think the same. I'm sure Shepard thought the same, too. None of us believe we're built for settling down, Kasumi...that's why extenuating circumstances convince us to do so later on."

"Shepard is getting married, Garrus," Kasumi piped up, shaking her head, "Of course he's settling down. And I don't blame him. But I'm not like him at all. I thrive on adventure and exploration. In fact, the only reason I accepted Cerberus' contract in the first place was to get the adventure of a life time. I got a whole bunch more than that, and I certainly wouldn't have gotten that experience by sitting around, getting married and growing old. As you can probably tell, I can never sit still for long."

"You never considered getting married when you get Keiji?" he asked, wondering if perhaps he was treading on dangerous ground. He knew the topic was sensitive for Kasumi, especially considering how deeply she had loved him. Perhaps he shouldn't have asked.

But if the thief was affected by his question, she certainly didn't outwardly show it, simply grinning in response to his question with a raised eyebrow, "Why all these questions about settling down? You trying to work up the courage to ask me, Garbear? Is that it? Don't tell me Archangel himself is afraid of the scary question?"

She was teasing him, he knew it, but still he couldn't help but fall into her trap, frowning as he wondered what she meant by that. As always, when it came to issues such as that, he was always too slow to pick up on her hidden meaning, "Ask you? Ask you what? All I meant was-"

When it dawned on him what she meant, Kasumi seemed to nod slowly in response to his widening eyes, her patronizing smirk causing him to groan internally as he waved his hand at her, "No, that's what I meant to ask. I was just curious as to what your thoughts on settling down are."

She bobbed her head affirmingly, biting her lower lip as she thought of what to say. When she did, it was in a very casual tone, like the subject matter wasn't even being taken seriously by her at all, "Keiji and I never really put much thought into it, Garrus. We were mavericks...we never stayed in one place for any length of time. Yes we did it to avoid people who wanted us dead and to stop them from tracking us down, but we also loved hopping from one place to another. We got to experience the galaxy together. Did I ever wish he would ask me to marry him? There's a part of me that says yes, I do wish he had, but the larger part...it knows I would have said no. Marriage is an inevitable slope down towards settling down. And most of the time it leads to kids. I wasn't up for that. I didn't want anything weighing me down...and I think he knew that. In the end, I think he shared that belief."

There was a low quiet that hung over their conversation, the pregnant pause giving them both time to digest what had been asked and what had been answered. Garrus knew that Kasumi would say something along those lines, but that didn't make it any easier to hear it said out loud. At one point in time, he had held those beliefs too...but surviving a war of armageddon can change one's perspective on life, and its fragility. Time always ran out, and all that mattered was what you did with it. He liked to think he'd prefer to spend that time with someone he loves...in an official capacity.

Unfortunately, Kasumi didn't seem to share that belief.

Checking her chronometer, the thief quickly stood up, patting him on the shoulder with a slightly weaker smile than before, almost like she was taking pity on him for what she knew had been an attempt to gauge where their relationship was heading, "I'm going to head back and finish that book I was reading. Look, Garrus...we're both the kind of people who wouldn't settle down. People change, and maybe we will someday, but right now, its Shep and Tali's turn. One day we'll both meet someone who will change our perspective...make us think twice. Or maybe we'll just get old and jaded and tired. All you have to do is wait for the right person...but if that person is me, Garrus, I'm afraid you'll be waiting a while."

It was like being shot and the shooter apologizing for it afterwards, but despite the rejection he had obliviously just been dealt, he nodded, reaching up to grasp the hand that had lingered on his shoulder, "Yeah, the right person..."

Kasumi's hand stayed where it was for several moments, and for a moment, he thought she wouldn't leave. That she would sit down and reconsider their stance on the issue. But she didn't, and as he sat there waiting for what would never happen, the thief slipped her hand out from underneath his and disappeared back to her abode in the Lounge, leaving Garrus, once again, with the mess hall all to himself.

A few minutes passed with him stewing in silence before he brought up his own chronometer and saw the time. Exhaustion made itself known to him in that moment, likely triggered by the knowledge that it was late, and time for him to turn in. Standing up and pushing his seat back in, he slowly made his way over to the elevator, hitting the button to summon the lift. As it ascended to him however, he found his eyes turning to the door leading to the Lounge, where they hung for an inordinate amount of time.

_"The right person..."_

_I think we've both found the right person, Kasumi. I just don't know if we're both ready to accept that yet. Or maybe you really are having doubts about our relationship proceeding any further..._

Whatever the case, he would have to sleep on it, and hope his disposition improved with some sleep. Hearing the elevator arrive, he stepped into it and waited for the doors to close before he ascended to Deck 1, one foot tapping seemingly of its own free will. He sighed, shaking his head disconsolately as he tried to force this new information out of his head, but only found it seeping further and further into focus as he considered the context.

Kasumi had made her stance clear. Maybe it would change, maybe it wouldn't. One thing was for certain: allowing it to gnaw at him like this would do neither of them any favors, and nor would holding it against her. All he could do was hope that her mindset would change.

That she would find that right person...

* * *

 _Huerta Memorial Hospital, The Citadel - February 6, 2188 - The next day_.

Tikhas never would have figured his divine purpose would lie in stealing medical documents, but life rarely lived up to expectations, as it was so fastidious and alacritous to prove.

He had never been a particularly religious man, at least not in his early life. Contrary to what many would believe, this was a common place notion amongst the drell, who had begun to turn away from the religion of the Rakhana pantheon, otherwise known as Wholism. With their homeworld nigh permanently destroyed by their ancestors' own hubris and greed, and their people effectively indebted for life to another alien race whose homeworld was literally dangerous to their health, the drell had very little hope to cherish or embrace.

The quarians thought they had it hard...but at least they were able to return to their homeworld, and aren't enslaved to another race. The krogan thought they had it hard too...but the genophage was cured, and the damage to their homeworld could be reversed. The drell enjoyed no such prospects. Rakhana wouldn't be habitable again for millions of years, and each successive generation of drell was developing shorter and shorter lifespans, their young inheriting diseases such as Kepral's syndrome to the point where it was becoming hereditary. And what was their gods doing to solve this?

Nothing. Their gods had abandoned them. The Keal family had once been evangelicals of the Rakhana faith. They had worshipped Amonkira, Arashu, Kalahira, Peninisha, and the many other gods of Rakhana. But that was just it: they were gods and goddesses of a planet long gone, long dead, and no longer theirs. Their power was limited to a single planet, and one that was no longer capable of supporting any life. As such, the Keals and many other drell families abandoned their faith, one by one, until eventually it was a minority religion.

Nowadays, were fit into three categories of faith: those who joined the Church of the Enkindler, the state religion of the Hanar Primacy and thus the faith of their masters. Then there were the agnostics and the atheists, such as himself, who chose to forge their own path. And then there was the vast minority who stell held true to the Old Gods. Tikhas pitied them.

Most drell liked to believe the Compact was a generous, even charitable, act. When the hanar had lifted 375,000 drell (from a population of eleven billion) from Rakhana to safety, the drell who survived the Rakhana apocalypse were indebted to the Primacy. The hanar were quick to take advantage of this, and forged the Compact. In its opening days, the Compact was an agreement between the Illuminated First Emissary (also the hanar head-of-state), and the leaders of the drell survivors. The Compact was a simple deal that established the drell as Primacy citizens, granted them lands and all the rights and liberties that came with it, and they could pay off their debt to the Primacy by helping them in areas that hanar were ineffective, such as warfare, agricultural production, politics, etc.

What most forgot, and what a large portion of drell and hanar teachers tell their people in history classes, was that the Compact was meant to be a temporary measure. And thus began, unknowingly, the drell's permanent enslavement to the hanar. The Council never objected to it, even though what the hanar were doing was essentially institutionalizing their own personal worker force.

Just the thought of what his people had been reduced to filled Tikhas with hate and anger, boiling in his stomach like a kettle about to explode. Tikhas was one of a very small portion of the drell population known as Anti-Compactists who wanted to bring the hanar to question for why they had allowed it to continue for so long, and to force them to release their people from it. Unfortunately, despite what many think about glorious revolutions and the 'will of the people', the drell had spent far too much time being subservient to the hanar to remember a time where they had once stood proud and independent. By now, the drell had come to rely as much on the hanar, as the hanar had relied on them.

But Tikhas and the Anti-Compactists had seen the Compact for what it really was, and what the Primacy was doing. Slowly converting their population to Enkindlerism, making the drell integral to their society, putting them in positions of power but never to the point of being higher than the hanar, sending them off to die in  _their_ wars...they were indoctrinating the drell into forgetting their own heritage and history, and it was working beautifully. They even had them dependent on them for medical needs. Why else would the drell suddenly fall victim to an incurable disease that only the 'brilliant minds of the Hanar Primacy' can treat?

The hanar knew how drell bodies reacted to wet environments, what it would do to them over time. They did it anyway.

Tikhas hadn't always been an anti-Compactist, of course. He had once been proud to serve the Compact too. When all drell came of age, or hit puberty as others would put it, they were rendered eligible to fullfill their part of the Compact. They would choose an occupation to specialize in, and spend the rest of their teenage years training for it, and most of their adult years performing their duty. When a drell became married, had children, grew old, or encountered other extenuating circumstances, they could bring their case to the Compact Court located at the heart of 'The Encompassing', the capital of Kahje. If the court found they had a legitimate case, they would be released from the Compact, although this rarely happened, as many drell preferred to get married, have children and continue their service. As for getting old...well, drell only had an average lifespan of 85, and while the Compact originally laid out that 64 was the age of which they were released from the Compact by default, the rise of Kepral cases led to them reducing that to 49, so that didn't matter.

The point was that Tikhas used to believe in the Compact just like every other drell. When the time came, he joyfully followed his brothers into the Drell Auxiliary Corps, which was the military branch of the Exalted Defense Forces made specifically for drell service members. His affinity for being sneaky was quickly picked up by his drill instructors, who caught him pilfering from ration supplies once out of the fifty times he had done it. As such, he specialized as an infiltrator, sneaking behind enemy lines to perform saboteur and espionage work. In the end, he was conscripted by Amonkira's Eyes, the military intelligence arm of the DAC. There, his skills came in extra handy.

It had been just before the outbreak of the Eden Prime War when Tikhas became friends with an anti-Compactist, and was exposed to their dogma and beliefs. He didn't believe it at first, and even ratted them out to the Amonkira's Eyes. However, when he discovered that the Primacy's intelligence arm, the Starfish (made entirely of hanar), had been sent instead, he quickly realized the truth: the hanar didn't trust the drell to handle their own people. Once he realized that, he raced back to the compound, just as his friends were being rounded up, and killed the Starfish unit. Tikhas then arranged to make it look like they escaped, erasing any evidence of his involvement.

Then the Reaper War came.

By this point, Tikhas hated the Primacy with a fervor that shocked even his co-conspirators. He continued to serve the DAC for the meanwhile, but kept his anti-Compactist ideology to himself, not wanting to risk being chased by the Starfish. Then the Reapers arrived, and he saw combat against the very monstrosities the Crusader had apparently warned the galaxy about, and had been ignored. He even heard news that the Crusader himself had helped a Council spectre in rooting out an indoctrinated hanar ambassador who had been about to cripple Kahje's orbital defenses.

However, the critical moment had only come when the Battle of London concluded. There, in the wake of the battle, Tikhas and his followers decided upon a single action that would change their entire world. Believing hanar forces present would be too exhausted to do anything, Tikhas went to the center of the drell camp, and declared a status of open rebellion against their Primacy lords, and tried to inspire his brothers and sisters to rise up and demand an end to the Compact.

It would have worked, but the core component was missing: motivation. It wasn't just that his people had just suffered heavy losses fighting the most important battle in galactic history, but it was because the Compact had simply become too engrained their collective memories, of which the drell recollected more easily and seamlessly than others, and they saw no reason to rebel against those they saw as their saviors. One by one, they called him a traitor. Words such as 'liar!' and 'ungrateful  _lifzik_ ' were tossed at him. Some called for him to be arrested, and others accused him of trying to incite violence and discontent after having just won a great battle. And, as was the inevitable followup, local hanar forces were informed of what was going on. Roped into it in order to keep the peace, UGC forces consisting of turian marines and Alliance army troopers joined the hanar in rounding up what the hanar called 'indoctrinated elements.'

Basically, they used 'indoctrinated' as a buzzword to scare local UGC forces into helping them crush a possible obstacle to their power. Typical.

Most of his co-conspirators surrendered without incident, and others were arrested or fled. Tikhas chose to flee, and it wasn't long before he found transport offworld and escaped to the Citadel. After that, he was declared an enemy of the Church and State, and Compact Enforcers were sent to pursue him endlessly. The chase seemed to never end, and Tikhas feared he would never find a refuge where the Enforcers wouldn't eventually find and bring him in.

But then, one day as he was laying low in a bar on Omega, he overheard a news report about the Shepardist movement, led by the Good Samaritan. He heard about the trouble they were causing, and how the Council were cracking down on their actions. He normally wouldn't have paid such news any heed. It had nothing to do with him, and a group of fanatics were hardly any of his business. But then the significance of their name resonated with him, and without realizing it, he began his own research on their organization.

If you hadn't heard of Commander Shepard by 2186, then you were considered to be living under a rock, because the man had taken the galaxy by storm. It became obvious to the public that the entire fiasco with the geth attacking the Citadel in 2183 hadn't been an isolated incident of a spectre going insane, and had been part of a larger plot involving the same Reapers who had ravaged the Milky Way. It was this same man who united the disparate races, regardless of their differences and opposition to one another, and led them to their last great victory on Earth. He had gone from an Alliance hero, to a galactic legend. Some were even calling him the most important figure of the 22nd century, if not the entire 3rd millenium.

But that's not what caught Tikhas' eye. He had heard the stories of the man's lack of racial bias. Of how the man had taken a quarian for his lover, a turian for his brother, and had made an alliance with the batarians...the very people he fought viciously against on Elysium. He had even taken the famous Thane Krios, one of the best assassins the Compact had ever produced, and recruited him. As some of his friends would have it...he even convinced the drell to break free of the Compact altogether, leading to his heroic sacrifice in defense of the Citadel Council.

He became enraptured in the legend and stories of the man many were now calling Reaper's Bane. But this story about Thane Krios was of particular interest to him, and his views on slavery weren't a well kept secret either. Many who called themselves enemies of Shepard even tried to use this as evidence for why he committed the atrocities on Torfan and Bahak, and that he might have even orchestrated the Kepcedah bombing (although the Shepardists knew full well the latter wasn't the case), but little information resides to prove this. However, Tikhas didn't care about any of that. The part about his contempt for slavery was what emboldened him.

It wasn't long before Tikhas sought out Mankins' cell on Omega, and joined the Shepardists. He figured the Crusader was someone worth serving, and if the Samaritan's beliefs held true, and they were truly destined to bring about the liberation of the galaxy, then there was a possibility that Tikhas, as one of his disciples, could bring news of his people's plight to the Crusader, and convince him to set his people free and cast down the Compact and those who promulgated its lies and feasted upon its fruits.

And so that's how he had ended up on Sanctum and, subsequently, a member of the Exaltation squad. It had been an honor to be chosen as a member of such a prestigous group. He didn't care for the intentions and motivations of his fellow squad members, only that the unit allowed him to save the Crusader, become his honor guard, and be one of his closest advisors. It was clear to him now that the Shepardists, the Samaritan and the Crusader were the last hope for his people to enjoy salvation from the hanar, even if they themselves weren't ready to accept this fact.

And that's how he had ended up here. Three days after his recruitment, his first assignment as an Exalted was to raid Huerta Memorial Hospital on the Citadel, and steal medical documents pertaining to the Crusader's health and condition. If he was to be perfectly honest, he wasn't quite able to discern the value of such documents, or why the Samaritan needed them badly enough to send one of his best men out to procure them. He had explained that these records were important in rehabilitating him, and Tikhas had accepted this explanation, although he supposed it was also an excuse to test his capabilities. If so, he fully intended to impress.

He had never been religious: he hadn't accepted the Enkindlers of the hanar, and the Rakhana pantheon had long since begun to fade from the memory of his people. The Enkindlers were extinct, wiped out by the Reapers, and the Wholist gods had died and deteriorated in influence with the destruction of their home planet. Neither had the power to do anything.

But the Crusader was a god that lived: in fact, he had died twice, and still come back. The Crusader was a god who didn't boast about achievements, he achieved them. Uniting the peoples. Curing the genophage. Liberating Rannoch. Peace between geth and quarians. The destruction of the Cerberus war machine. Saving the entire galaxy. The Crusader was a god who got results, earning the faith others put in him. He was a physical presence. Nobody needed to prove he existed, because that was self-evident. He had all the hallmarks of a god that was demonstrably and undeniably real.

And because of that, Tikhas was now a religious man. Glory to the Crusader would be at hand, but first he needed to be saved. He was proud to act as the vanguard of this movement.

As was now abundantly clear, walking straight into Stoneman's office in broad daylight, taking the documents, and walking out, wasn't an option. There were far too many people walking around, and thus too many witnesses. No, he had to play this carefully, which is exactly where his skills in infiltration would come into play.

He was only 26 years of age, which meant the effects of Kepral's syndrome hadn't begun to manifest in his body just yet, as that usually didn't happen until around the age of 39. However, the good thing about drell was that, physically, they didn't age noticeably. No wrinkles, paling skin, etc. A 50 year old drell would look just like his or her 20 year old equivalent, which made Tikhas' plan perfect.

The objective? Admit himself as a patient with Kepral's syndrome, then hack security to render them blind long enough for him to sneak into the office, get the documents and get out without anyone noticing. Naturally, one would assume the same result could be achieved if he didn't get admitted as a patient, but this would prove to be more advantageous than it sounded to his plan, and help expedite its success.

Now it was just time to execute. Once he walked through those doors, it was go time.

_Test or no, I'll prove to the Crusader my worth. And then the Herald will tremble in fear as we, the Exalted, rescue the Crusader from her clutches and restore him to greatness. And when that happens...nothing will stop us._

_Not even the Compact. Then it will be the Enforcers on the run._ _**I'll** _ _be the hunter then, won't I?_

Straightening his outfit, he stood and waited as the elevator ceased its ascent to the hospital. Eager to complete his mission, he got into position, stooping over and holding his side, while performing a few practice coughs to get into character. Placing emphasis on the wheeziness of his wet coughs, he was able to perfect it sufficiently to the point where his throat began to feel raw from the effort. Deeming himself ready, he looked up as the elevator arrived, doors shooting open with a gentle whistle of pressure being released.

_It is time._

The waiting room was fairly sparse, with scarcely anyone within it, which seemed odd given Huerta Memorial was one of the primary public hospitals on the entire station. However, this worked more to his advantage than against it, allowing his plan more breathing room as the number of witnesses was reduced by a factor of ten. To his left, a few asari and some humans were mingling around the observation glass, while to his right a group of window cleaners, a human accompanied by a turian and an elcor, all three of them wearing dark blue uniforms with 'Citadel Janitorial Services' labelled on their back. The elcor seemed to just stand there, all the numerous cleaning products and materials the cleaners needed hanging from his back, while his two compatriots used them to wipe and clean the windows. On the outside, hanging from a support harness, was another human window cleaner, wiping the windows from his side, foamy water dripping down the window in a thick waterfall.

The reception desk had three employees sitting behind it in their chairs, their blank expressions evidence of the uneventful and boring day they were likely having. One was a human, one was an asari and another was...a hanar. Just the sight one of his former masters caused his blood to boil, and he had to resist the temptation to reach up for the nearest object and kill the creature.

But regardless of that temptation, he had to resist it. He clenched his fists, gently releasing them as he entered the room, making a beeline for the reception desk. When he joined the Shepardists, his fealty permanently shifted to the Crusader: he was  _his_  servant, and his  _only_. And while he would try his best to convince the Crusader to help his people, it was ultimately now a secondary concern compared to the general manumission of galactic civilization. It pained him to have to bear the weight of that knowledge, but a part of him was also relieved to hear it, knowing he no longer had to shoulder an entire revolutionary movement on his own...he would merely be standing side-by-side with the man who would.

_Stick to the plan. Leave old prejudices behind._

It was with this understanding that he tore his gaze away from the lone hanar at his desk, making his way over to the human at hers, one of her hands mindlessly sweeping through her terminal while her other hand held a datapad she was reading over. From the looks of it, it seemed like Tikhas' arrival was going to be the highlight of her day...which really didn't say much.

Still in character, he coughed three times before he reached the desk, placing a hand on its steel grey surface to steady himself. This immediately caught the receptionist's attention, who looked up from what she was doing to consider his presence. Placing her datapad back down, she turned away from her terminal to regard him directly, "Can I help you, sir?"

He coughed once more, covering his mouth with a fist, "Y-yes. I..I'd like to see Doctor Sulbeno."

The woman nodded, typing at her terminal as she talked. Through the transparent pixels that formed the softlight of the instrumentation infront of her, he could see the image of the salarian doctor he had requested popping up on screen, "Did you make an appointment? Doctor Sulbeno has a very tight schedule, sir."

"I understand, miss," he insisted, coughing as hard as possible to emphasize his condition, and feeling his already tender throat ache in response, "But my...you see, I have Kepral's syndrome, and it really is quite serious...Doctor Sulbeno knows my condition. He's the only one I trust. Please...its quite serious."

The woman looked at him hesitantly, hand freezing over her computer as she considered the drell's request. For a long moment, it seemed as though the progress of his mission depended on this one woman. She didn't know it yet, but she held the fate of Shepardism in her very hands: this one, insignificant, inconsequential receptionist who's life was boring and uneventful. Her job was simple and trivial, and yet it could very well decide the fate of the galaxy.

She would remain blissfully unaware of this, of course.

Finally, she sighed, shaking her head, "Well, if it really is that serious, I'm sure he won't mind squeezing you in. Doctor Sulbeno can be a very flexible man. I'll inform him you're here and you can go straight in. He doesn't have any patients at the moment. Your name, please?"

"Kolyat Krios," he rasped.

"This won't take a second," she nodded, already in the process of making the necessary arrangements. His three sets of eyelids blinked simultaneously in surprise, which the receptionist didn't notice thankfully. He had gone to all the effort in getting Rela to forge credentials for him to help impersonate the late Krios' son, but the receptionist hadn't bothered to ask for any. Sloppy work.

_Makes my job easier, though, so I guess Amonkira wasn't entirely useless. The Lord of Hunters may not be around to guide us, but she does so in the skills she passes down to her people._

"T-" he barked another cough, this one much louder than the others that came before it, and it as per usual,  _nolens volens_ , many more chained after it, devolving into a solid minute of coughing that left him barely able to breathe. When it finally ended, he felt like he  _actually_ had Kepral's syndrome, it had been that severe. But he had sold it, as when he looked up, the receptionist had been leaning back from him, worried that she might contract what he had. He forced a smile, "Thank you. I a-appreciate this."

"I'm sure you do," the woman muttered, clearly not appreciating being this close to someone she believed had a serious illness. If only this ignorant human knew that Kepral's syndrome wasn't communicable.

A moment or two passed, a few more patients filtered in and out of the reception area, and after a brief conversation on her omni-tool, she finally turned back to him, motioning to the door at the end of the chamber, "Doctor Sulbeno says he can fit you in, Mr. Krios. Just walk through the decon unit and then its the fourth office on your left."

_Believe me, I know exactly where it is. Not like I haven't planned this at all. A drell's perfect memory has allowed me to map out this entire facility without a gap in that knowledge to be found._

He offered a weak smile, making an effort to show he was stumbling as he made his way from the reception desk to the decon unit entrance, quickly hitting the interface and stepping through as the door opened. Only ceasing the act as soon as the door had shut him off from reception, he straightened up, wiping his lips of spittle that had collected there from his coughing fit. He stood perfectly still as the decon beam washed over him, its blue tint like a wave in the ocean that was washing over him, cleansing it an all-consuming storm of light. Meanwhile, doctors in rooms flanking the corridor watched through clear glass windows, although most of their attentions were understandably elsewhere.

However, once that was finished, he was surprised to find the door on the opposite end failing to open, its red haptic interface glowing red defiantly in the face of his presence. He briefly contemplated the possibility that his cover had been blown, and his perfect memory began to conjure up images in his mind of escape routes he had memorized for possible future use. He had no weapon on him, as such a device would have immediately been picked up by scanners, so he'd have to escape with minimal bloodshed: a difficult task indeed.

A low buzzing sound filled the chamber, and he felt whoozy for a second, almost like a wave of dizziness, not too dissimilar to that felt by those in late stages of Kepral, washed over him, nearly causing him to lose balance. Confusion poured into him, and he almost panicked, fearing he would pass out without knowing why.

But just like that, the buzzing sound stopped, and the dizziness disappeared. He braced himself against a nearby wall, shaking his head and finding himself panting from exhaustion, the entire experience feeling like it had drained him of all energy. A moment later, a soft voice came over the PA, clearly asari given its accent, "Don't panic sir, there's nothing wrong with you. What you've just experienced is an AIEPHGRAM."

He frowned, looking up. Remembering his cover, he spoke hoarsely, "W-what...is that?"

"Anti-Indoctrination Electroencephalogram. In layman's terms, its a scanner that reads brain waves to see if you're exhibiting signs of indoctrination. We've just had them installed last week, so you're not the first. Did you experience any dizziness?"

"Y-yes," he coughed, understanding dawning on him. He had to have expected anti-indoctrination practices would begin to crop up as security measures, especially given it hadn't been long since the Reaper War had ended. The Reapers were gone, but not all their thralls had died when the Crucible fired, and without their masters guiding them, their eventual insanity could make them a serious threat. It made sense to have scanners that could detect them.

"That's understandable," the doctor replied, "That's the scanner reading your brain waves. We're using a highly modified form of an electroencephalogram to detect manipulation of electrical waves in your brain to see if we can detect the signs of indoctrination. The beam is invisible to the naked eye, but it has been known to cause dizziness in those directly exposed to the beam...we're sorry for any discomfort this has caused you, sir. Oh...and you'll be happy to know you're, at least according to these readings,  _not_  indoctrinated."

 _That's a relief._ He nodded, walking through as the door finally opened, allowing him to step out, "G-g-good to know, ma'am. Thank y-you."

Leaving the decon chamber, he found the main offices of the hospital to be a tad more crowded than the reception area, but not by much. Doctors in white labcoats walked up and down the hallway, guiding patients to follow them. At the end of the hallway, a hospital bed was rolled past at a rapid pace, doctors and nurses all around them clearing the way. Tikhas pained none of this any mind, for he was already on the hunt.

Following the receptionist's instructions, he traipsed down the hallway, passing by office after office, until he reached the fourth on his left, the name 'Doctor U. Sulbeno' displayed protuberantly over the door. He stopped just before rounding the corner, looking in to see the salarian doctor in question sitting behind his desk, typing away at insane speeds on his terminal. The salarian didn't seem to notice anything going on around him, and certainly not the drell peeking in through the window.

But it was not the fourth office on the left that he was here for...it was the fourth office on the  _right_.

And the fact of perfect drell memory never failed him, because as he turned to his right, there it was...'Doctor C. Stoneman' hanging over the fourth office to his right. And as he peeked in through the office window, his luck held out: it was completely empty, with Doctor Stoneman himself nowhere to be found.

He seized his chance. With nobody looking, he brought up his omni-tool and initiated the hacking program he had queued up and ready to go. With a simple button press, all cameras within a 50 meter radius would endlessly loop the same ten minutes of footage, but allow the timestamps to continue as per normal, creating the illusion that it was still filming in real time. Hitting the button, he deactivated his omni-tool, and after checking both sides of the hallway, made his move.

One thing that was honed into all drell combatants was the use of speed and agility. Their bodies were naturally built for it: lithe and versatile, flexible and nimble. They were capable of achieving great speeds, and their comparably smaller frame when contrasted with batarians and humans, meant they sacrificed immense strength and weight for greater stamina, speed, flexibility and reflexes. Drell could jump higher and run faster, making their speed perfect for the work they were usually hired for...and there was no assassin quite like a drell assassin.

Tikhas had mastered this. So when he darted across the room, he was like a blur. One moment he had been hunched over, fake coughing and looking from one way to the next. A moment later, the doors to Stoneman's office were closing, the drell having already passed through them. Quickly turning around to make sure nobody had seen him, he noticed that the windows to Stoneman's office were quite inconveniently tinted on one side, making it impossible to see out from his office. However, that wouldn't stop people from being able to see him, so he had to act quickly and discreetly. He had no idea when Stoneman would be back either, or if he wasn't already on his way back.

Time was not on his side. Speed was of the essence.

Luckily for him, filing cabinets were a thing of the past. Even the humans, though having an obsession with them in the early years of their integration into the galactic community, had done away with them, going for the far more convenient and reliable method of having documents filed in a data archive server bank placed within the heart of the hospital itself, while all employee terminals were synched up to it, allowing them to download necessary information from an internal cloud network housed within the server itself. This would be what allowed him to access Shepard's files.

Of course, if this were the case, why not just use any terminal? Why specifically Stoneman's? Because while all employees could access the cloud network, they didn't have unrestricted access to all its contents, and doctors had to receive permission to gain access to certain files for privacy and security reasons. Obviously, doctors who filed patient documents to be archived had access to them because they were the ones who created them in the first place, which is why accessing Stoneman's terminal was ideal. According to the Samaritan,  _he_ was the one who oversaw the Crusader's recovery on Earth...which meant he had the files.

Pulling out the seat to Stoneman's desk, he sat down before his terminal and got to work. The drell knew that the VI security would immediately detect an unauthorized wireless attempt to connect to their cloud server, and he had brought up this hurdle with Rela before leaving. The quarian had simply given him an OSD, telling him only to plug into the terminal's OSD socket and to let her program do the rest. He had no idea how it would work, but if it got him what he needed, it didn't really matter. He just had to trust that Rela knew what she was doing.

_We'll soon see if that naval intelligence claim means anything._

Rela didn't disappoint. As he pulled the OSD from his pocket, plugging it into the side of the terminal, he watched as the screen stuttered once, then twice. It looked like it was glitching out almost, but then a moment later the terminal seemed to adopt a mind of its own. He wasn't even watching the holographic keyboard, yet programs and applications were popping up here and there, and it began a wireless connection to the cloud server. Whatever this virus was, it had a specific target: the files on the Crusader. Within moments, it had scrolled through thousands of patient file numbers, narrowed them down to just one, and just like that...the Crusader's face appeared on screen in the upper left, along with all the documents pertaining to him.

Tikhas couldn't help but smile a little. Drell weren't prone to emotions very often, and they were a very insular people, but he had to admit, Rela had outdone herself.

Seconds later, an upload progress bar appeared in the bottom left as the OSD began copying the medical documents to the OSD. The process was entirely automated, which left Tikhas with nothing to do as the files were uploaded. Unable to help himself however, and with curiosity beginning to convert him, the inclination to look over some of the files pegged at him incessantly.

But just as he had been ready to refuse that tempting impulse, his eyes caught something. A drell's physical reflexes weren't the only reflexes they had perfected...their perfect memory also allowed them to process information at a rapid rate, and while they couldn't hold a candle to a machine, they could notice things other organics would miss. It was this reflex that piqued his curiosity as he quickly tapped at the keyboard and clicked on a file whose name caught his attention.

'Medical diagnosis, Pt. J. B. Shepard - Stoneman's Syndrome.'

Opening up the file, he quickly read through it...as quickly as he could given his short time table for exfiltration. As he continued to read through it though he felt his mouth becoming dry, his hands numb and his body tensing up. The information contained here was game changing, but perhaps not for the reasons the Samaritan or the other members of the FAICRU could fully grasp. This went beyond simple manipulation on the Herald's part...the Crusader was far more damaged than initially anticipated.

_This Stoneman's syndrome...if these documents are accurate, and they must be, then the Crusader isn't even fit to lead a squad, let alone our liberation. It lists here an incident where he collapsed during basic physical therapy and fell into a seizure...information that the Crusader himself reportedly chose to keep secret as per his doctor-patient confidentiality agreement. So really, the only people who know about this, aside from me now, are the Crusader, Doctor Stoneman and...and..._

There it was, detailed at the bottom. An additional signatory. Doctor-patient confidentiality was largely always restricted to the immediate patient and the doctor treating them. Not even the family of the patient were privy to this information, unless mentioned otherwise. But here it was cleary stated that a third signatory, approved of by the Crusader himself, was knowledgeable of the secret.

Tali'Zorah vas Normandy. The Herald.

Numbness gave way to anger, and he had to rest the temptation to slam his fist into the desk, knowing it would give him away. Instead, he chose to growl.  _The Herald's treason knows no bounds...this syndrome...she must have convinced the Crusader to keep it secret. She's using it to keep him under control...to psychologically manipulate him. It makes sense, actually...use an actual disability to keep him rooted and unable to fight back. The Herald has proven just how despicable her selfishness can be. Her influence tightens like a vice with each passing day we wait. No wonder the Good Samaritan is eager to act ASAP_

_Perhaps that is why he needs his Exalted...the Exaltation squad, my squad, are the only hope he has to escape the cell she has imprisoned him in. The Samaritan will need to be notified of this as soon as possible. If we wait too long, the Crusader will be lost to us forever!_

So enraptured and perturbed by this information was he that he hadn't noticed the upload was complete. The problem with perfect drell memory was that their brain liked to slip into almost catatonic states of reminiscence. Getting lost in good memories, being caught in horrible ones and, when fascinated by a particular piece of information, their brain prefers to consume it at the hindrance of the rest of their body. Snapping out of this state, his hand darted out and grabbed the OSD, pulling it out and placing it in his pocket. Doing this caused the entire terminal to shut down and reboot, likely the virus' method of wiping any obvious trace of its intrusion away from the terminal so as to not alert the user. He silently thanked Rela for this.

Straightening his jacket, he left the office and made sure to walk slowly and inconspiculously back towards the decon chamber as to not draw unwanted attention. Thankfully, nobody pulled him aside to question the drell, so as he proceeded through the decon chamber, and out into the reception area. Upon getting there though, he stopped, his eyes immediately fixating upon the desk.

"He never showed up, Irene," complained Doctor Sulbeno to the human receptionist Tikhas had spoken with before, who looked thoroughly annoyed and fed up, "I even looked around to see if I could find him. He's nowhere to be found."

"Probably got lost, Udip," a bald human doctor said from his position behind the desk, and from where Tikhas was, he could see his nametag identified him as the very doctor whose office the drell had just raided. The human was using a coffee machine to fill up his coffee cup, likely having just returned from break and was on his way back to his office, "If he's got Kepral syndrome in its later stages, its hardly a surprise. Drell that far along Kepral's-"

"-become disconnected from their surroundings and their perfect memory deteriorates, causing periods of confusion and short-term memory loss," Sulbeno finished, shaking his head, "I know that Christopher, but this patient is a regular of mine. He's the son of another patient of mine who died during the war, and I can tell you his son was nowhere near that stage of Kepral's. The symptomps hadn't even begun to manifest yet. I'm not sure why he was even coming to see me about that."

While this conversation took place, Tikhas made his way over to the left, using the wall separating the left part of the room from the right to sneak past the desk without being noticed. However, he could still hear the conversation loud and clear.

"Look sir, I'm sorry-" the human tried to defend.

"Sorry doesn't cut it, Irene. You didn't even ask for credentials. How do we know he's not an impostor?"

"I know, and I screwed up. I only got two hours sleep last night, and now my bloody boyfriend is-"

"Typical humans," Sulbeno criticized, "More worried about relationships than work ethic. A salarian wouldn't have made such a mistake."

"Hey, that's not fair!" Irene complained, just as Tikhas rounded the corner and made a beeline for the elevator, "Its not my fault I have a life outside of this stupid hospital!"

"Yes, its just a pity the two seem to conflate far too often," Sulbeno dryly noted.

"Give the girl a rest, Udip. Not her fault one of your mystery patients has gone walkabout," Stoneman suggested, "She's not perfect. Send her home, get Visri to cover for her. Some rest and time to sort out her private life should make her a better worker, yes?"

"Yes, exactly! Thank you, Doctor Stoneman," Irene appreciatively stated.

Sulbeno sighed, "Very well, take the day off. Get your issues sorted and report back to work first thing in the morning. Otherwise, I think Visri will appreciate getting more shifts."

Tikhas stepped into the elevator, watching the doors close as the human receptionist closed her terminal down, and Sulbeno and Stoneman accompanied each other as they moved back towards the decon chamber. Sighing with relief, he reached down into his pocket again, making sure he still had the OSD.

He needed to get this to the Samaritan as soon as possible. Three days was simply too long of a wait. He needed to procure faster transport, and return to Sanctum with all possible speed. With this development...their rescue just became that much more important.

The race was on.

* * *

 _Shepardist Sanctuary, Sanctum - February 6, 2188 - Less than an hour l_ _ater_.

Sometimes, the cold could be comforting. Even if it was currently four degrees below zero.

As he stepped outside of the Shepardist sanctuary, door closing behind him, he felt an immediate blast of arctic air assault him upon entry, the warm coat he was wearing seeming useless as the breeze just cut right through it, chilling him to the bone and causing him to uncontrollably shiver. The hood he had folded over his head was whipped back by the strong wind, ice particulates carried over from other parts of the inhospitable planet landing in his hair and other parts of his face and melting instantly due to the warmth radiating from inside him, causing the ice to melt into cold water that dripped down his face and back onto the ground.

On Sanctum, the average temperature was fifty degrees celsius below zero. The equator was far warmer however, with an average of four degrees, which is why the inhabitants who lived here had chosen to built the capital there, and why the Samaritan had chosen this place for the FAICRU headquarters. But that was on average...day was the last day of Sanctum's six week long 'super arctic period', where temperatures plummeted everywhere, including the equator. Compared to the rest of the planet though...

Let's just say Conrad was happy to be away from places that had dropped to as low as 90 degrees below zero. Those kinds of temperatures simply weren't capable of supporting life. Not even Antarctica back on Earth at its coldest could be that freezing. However, the ice that formed across the planet did make it a wet dream for ice-cracking corporations looking to make easy money by extracting tens of thousands of metric tonnea of ice and breaking it down into drinkable water for other planets and space stations. For that, Sanctum would always have some use.

A blizzard had settled over the Shepardist sanctuary, and it was on lockdown until further notice. Despite all their technological advancements, natural hazards were still a factor in determining the safety of travel arrangements, and like it or not, shuttles and transports simply could not operate in this weather due to the poor visibility. Not to mention all the debris that would be flying around...the Shepardists couldn't afford to waste assets trying to combat it. They would simply have to wait it out. Nobody was allowed in or out of the sanctuary...but that didn't stop Conrad for taking a bit of a walk.

He had been caught in blizzards before. Conrad had been born on Tyr, a planet whose surface temp could plummet to as low as seventy-three degrees below zero: far worse than Sanctum's average. Tyr had been one of the Alliance's most lucrative colonies, and before the breadbasket Terra Nova became a more promising prospect for terraforming and colonization, Tyr was the planet the Alliance had sunk many resources into making habitable. However, Terra Nova's rise had only relegated Tyr to a support role, and hundreds of human and alien interests had flocked to the planet after the First Contact War to invest in hydrogen mining and ice-cracking. So important was Tyr and Terra Nova to these corporations, it ended up supplying nearly four percent of the galactic market's hydrogen fuel.

Conrad's father, Niklas Verner, had been a supply runner for one of these companies, and had regularly used ice rovers, which were built to survive the temperatures and blizzards of such harsh planets, to transport mined fuel and materials back and forth between the mine and the nearby mining towns. Conrad as a kid would often accompany his father on these trips, and when he reached the age of 12, began helping him. Conrad would eventually get a job at Cision Motors many years later, but he had never forgotten the skills he learned while helping his father. Especially on how to survive in a blizzard.

Visibilty was nearly non-existent, but he pressed on regards, using muscle memory and mental memory to remember where he wanted to go. This wasn't some stroll he has improvizing. Nobody went for a walk in a blizzard. No, he had a destination to reach, and he needed to get there. The blizzard only helped in masking his journey to it.

For Conrad didn't want anyone to know, especially the Samaritan, where he was going. Not even Jenna knew where he was or what he was doing. It was a secret he had done well to hide...or at least he hoped as such.

Despite the biting cold of the ice and snow that slammed into him constantly, the breeze so strong that it felt like it was going to uproot him from the very ground he stood, he pressed on. Bootprints he left in the gathering snow quickly vanished, replaced by heaps of new snow that compacted inside the gap. The howl was so loud and deafening he thought it might deafen him, and his skin had become so numb to the cold, despite the thick coat and gloves he wore, that he thought he was going to die of hypothermia. But for every step he suffered backwards, he forced himself into four more forwards, and despite the fog that hung over the area infront of him, a low light could be seen piercing through the darkness, guiding him all the way.

He knew exactly what that light was because he put it there for this very situation. A beacon to show him the way. A lighthouse guiding a lost ship.

It was gruelling and painful, and the cold felt more and more like a physical presence now, icy tendrils slipping into his mouth, down his throat and into their lungs, where it felt like they were being filled up with an indescribable sensation that made it more and more difficult to breathe. But, finally, his perserverence was rewarded, and reached his destination: a small, isolated building...a cubicle by all shape and structural definitions, not too far from the main facility, but enough to grant him some solitude.

Fighting his breathlessness, he brought up his arm, numb as it was, and activated his omni-tool, keying in the code to unlock the door. It shot open, and he stepped inside, listening as the door closed behind him again, the roaring boom of the wind outside cut off immediately, muting it enough that he could hear the ringing in his ears quite distinctly.

Detecting the presence of a person in the room, the heating system kicked in, although he wouldn't feel it for a while. Instead he tore off his gloves and tore open his coat, placing them on the coat hanger to his left, before marching over and collapsing into the lone chair at the back, grabbing the thermal blanket that had been discarded to the side since his last visit and quickly turning it up to full, tossing it over him in a huff, his teeth chattering and skin so blistering it was like grabbing a fistful of knives.

It took him a while to calm down, but once he had, he was able to sit up a little, taking a deep breath and marvelling at the lack of cold, evaporating air that didn't erupt from his mouth.

Few knew the purpose of this room. It wasn't secret by any means, and he had no doubt the Samaritan already knew about it and had sent men to check it. Conrad didn't care...there was nothing to hide. There was no conspiracy to undermine his authority taking place within these walls: he wasn't smart enough for that. The building's purpose wasn't even known when they took this place, as it could have been established after the mining facility was abandoned, during its operation, or long after. Nobody knew. All Conrad knew was that when he found it, it was empty, and his to claim. This had simply been an abode he had chosen as a refuge for when he needed to get away from all the politics, scheming and crowds. A place to call his own. A place of peace and quiet.

A place he found himself escaping to a lot more often recently. And now his reasons for hiding here was a lot more complicated...and rooted.

His thoughts wandered to Jenna, and he groaned, shaking his head. He came here to clear his mind and to try and calm himself, not cause himself further grief by pondering the ever confusing and conflicting nature of his destiny, his role in the games being played by people smarter and greater than him, and just what kind of man Jenna thought he was or could be.

It had been just under two weeks since he had learnt the truth of the Samaritan's origins from Jenna. Since his world, once more, had been turned upside down and thoroughly rattled to ensure that any peace or understanding he thought he had found was meticulously imbalanced once more.

Conrad had never really known the purpose of his existence. His father had constantly told him he was destined to be a great mechanic, and he had believed him. But then he had woken up one day to find the door to his house wide open and both his mother and father gone, most of their belongings taken with them. They had disappeared without a trace, and he had never seen them again. He lived in an orphanage until he was old enough to leave, and then he found a job with Cision Motors on the Citadel. He was determined to be the mechanic his father tried to inspire his son to be.

Then he met his soon-to-be wife, Sasha Yokoslov. The two fell in love...and got married within a week of meeting each other. And thus Conrad's life spiralled out-of-control even further. He went to the University of Armali to study the sciences, and eventually wrote a doctoral dissertation on xenotechnology and dark energy integration that he could look back on as the one good thing he wrote. His life seemed to be going right...until he was fired by Cision Motors. He wasn't incompetent or anything. In fact, his boss emphasized that he deeply regretted being forced to do so, but the Cision Motors division on the Citadel had been turned into a factory, and factories nowadays were automated. There was no use for any organic component, and so Conrad was dismissed. He didn't even get paid what he was owed.

Conrad entered a deep depression...without a job, he couldn't support him and his wife, or his university fees. He saw the Alliance marines were offering a scholarship for those who served for at least two years, but he didn't even survive the fitness test. He tried it repeatedly, and eventually passed with flying colors...until he did the eyesight test, and the marines deemed him ineligible anyway. In the end, he gave up his course, paying off the rest of what he owed with what little savings he had left.

In the end, his wife ended up having to pick up the slack. She got another job in addition to her work at a restaurant, and Sasha never ceased to rub it in his face. But he never stopped looking for another job, hoping to make it up to her.

And then it happened: the Battle of Elysium. Commander Shepard took the galaxy by storm with the tale of how he heroically defended a colony from certain annihilation. Conrad remembered reading articles about him for days after that...but as it seemed destined to do, this became an obsession. After all, in Conrad's experience, lesser men became infatuated with the exploits of greater men because it reminded them of what they could be, but weren't. Shepard was one such example: Conrad became so much of a fan that he ended up knowing almost every facet of his experience that was public knowledge. He even knew the name of his mother.

When he met Shepard on the Citadel for the first time, he had been giddy with joy. He never thought it would happen, but it did, and who could blame him for milking it for all he could? Photos, autographs...an admittedly embarassing attempt to get him signed up for the spectres...Conrad tried it all. But in the end, it really only set him up to fail, and that was perhaps the greatest irony of it all. A cruel one that saw fit to mock him every year afterward, dangling success like a yarn...and he was the cat. The only difference was that nobody used yarn to lead cats off cliffs.

Conrad had made a job out of falling off cliffs.

Trying to join the spectres was nothing compared to the indignities he willingly walked into. Dressing up as an N7 and going on his own personal crusade to fight injustice? Even Shepard, when confronting him, had regarded him like a moron, and his kind-hearted attempt to let him down lightly had only been transparent to him once the adrenaline wore off, and Conrad really looked at the situation seriously.

What the hell had he been thinking? His wife didn't seem to know, because when he arrived home...she was gone. Nothing but a letter to tell him that he was a worthless, pathetic excuse for a man, and that they should never have married in the first place. He remembered weeping for two days...until realizing that he really hadn't loved her to begin with, and that she had a point. The divorce papers turned up on the third...he signed them without hesitation. She had been living in Winsconsin with her uncle...she was probably dead now. The Reapers would have made sure of that. And even if she wasn't, he was long gone from her life.

The point here was...well, it was that Conrad was prone to failure. His so-called 'destiny' often led him into traps or into committing to stupid acts that only furthered his humiliation. Being a mechanic didn't pan out. Being a soldier didn't pan out. Trying to be a hero didn't pan out. Helping Shepard...didn't pan out. Being married and trying to be normal was  _never_  going to pan out. So what else did he have left?

Well, the next logical step was to stop trying to fight this battle by himself. That's when he met Jenna. That's when they founded the Shepardist movement, with Conrad making absolutely sure that the members of said organization would be the voices of reason and discussion, and not him. He had done enough damage already.

But fate was a cruel mistress, and its cruelty knew no bounds. In trying to create something good, free of his deliberation and control and ability to destroy...he had unwittingly created an army just waiting to be activated and turned loose on the galaxy. All it needed was the right coup d'etat, the wrong person behind the wheel. And on December 18, 2187, the Good Samaritan arrived to remind Conrad that he truly was a worthless, pathetic excuse of a man who did nothing but screw everything up.

And now here he was...reduced to nothing, capable of nothing, and a knower of nothing. Jenna, in the end, had been the one to investigate the Samaritan. Not Conrad, who claimed to have learned from his mistakes in the past and believed every single word that left that lying, manipulating pretender's mouth, but Jenna...who opposed him at every turn, and had worked to save their organization from the moment it was taken over. Jenna was the real hero of this story...not him.

He was pathetic. A mewling puppet who followed whoever pulled his strings. And the revelation of the Samaritan's origins had only cemented this fact.

Conrad was a follower. He was not a leader. He didn't have any of the qualities and charismatic nature of people like Shepard and the Good Samaritan that inspired loyalty in those they led. He had none of that, and never would. Strength, determination, conviction, intellect...they were abundant in these aspects, and he came up short in all of them. How could he possibly have expected another outcome? Even the Samaritan saw him for his low worth and saw fit to regularly use him for the tool he was.

So what course of action did he have to take now? It was clear that everytime he tried to play the instigator, the one to push for change...he only ended up making everything worse. He thought by joining Cerberus in the war that he would be helping Shepard...only to end up helping their agents nearly sabotage medi-gel dispensers in refugee camps. He established the Shepardists in an effort to help him create the solidarity he had created towards the end of the Reaper War...only for that very movement to become a dangerous threat.

Everything he did...only made things worse. He could even see it Jenna's eyes...the disapproval. Perhaps not at him, but at what was being done to what they built. He hadn't seen it before, having willingly blinded himself to the truth of the abomination that had been transforming and bastardizing their movement. By the time he did see it, it was too late. The Samaritan had done his work. Assassinations, a bombing on Kepcedah, an Exaltation squad, making enemies left and right...the Good Samaritan, or Matthew Cormack, or whatever name he chose to go by...he was a wolf in sheep's clothing. A deeply nefarious man who was committing evil atrocities in the name of a good man, and Conrad had failed to see it. Sure, none of the rest of his movement had either...but perhaps that's because the Samaritan simply fed off the evil that was inherent in all of them. Perhaps the core of their movement had been rotten from the very beginning, and the Samaritan had only given them the heart to act upon it.

He didn't know what to believe. What was truth anymore, if not just a collection of smaller lies told by someone with a convincing tongue, a genuinely fake smile and the charisma of a flamboyant actor. He had been naive enough to believe in a galaxy where people wore their personalities on their shirts. He was not a good judge in character, yet he had presumed to believe he was. And like all great traps in history, he got caught in it, and now an entire galaxy was unknowingly about to pay the price.

He sighed, sitting up and closing his eyes, simply allowing himself to listen to the howling rage of the blizzard beyond. He needed this silence to think. To ponder what he had done, what he  _should_  do next.

Jenna was adamant, and her course of action had been decided. She was going to topple the Samaritan anyway she could. She had implored Conrad to follow her. He loved her, he truly did, but now he was afraid that anything he did next would ultimately lead to more fuck ups. What if toppling the Samaritan just led to another tyrant with even more insane ideas? Or what if they tried to put  _him_ in charge again? Could you imagine the damage he would do? Its all well and good to know you're a disaster waiting to happen, but to actually ensure you don't fall to that level again...its a mammoth task that he simply lacked the willpower to pull off.

So he retreated. He hid. Was it cowardice that drove him to this hiding place? He couldn't honestly say. But the silence did give him time to think...and think long and hard, he most certainly did.

He weighed the pros and cons in his mind. He gambled with the idea of trying to lead another coup, and whether it would be successful. He quickly deemed that foolhardy, given that the Samaritan not only had a krogan bodyguard, but now an entire special forces unit of his own making at his beck-and-call, oathsworn to defend him and what they thought he represented. Were they in on the lie? One could hardly tell, but was it worth exposing themselves to find out? Hardly.

But as he began to try and convince himself against helping Jenna...he found himself subconsciously bringing up his omni-tool, warmth now flooding him, and bringing up her a photo of her. He felt himself tearing up, a low sob threatening to break free, but he held it back, despite being alone with nobody to witness or care about his sign of weakness.

Jenna McLean was nothing like Sasha Verner...and that was good. Sasha had married him on a whim because of a childish crush they had for each other, which never panned out. Sasha later regarded him with contempt, and saw his weakness as a husband as a threat to her survival. She left him without hesitation, leaving him alone. But Jenna had never done that...she was at his side whenever he needed it, and no matter how insane his infatuation, she had helped him every step of the way. She was the brains behind everything they did, and she had guided him when he required it. And when the Samaritan had taken over...she had defied him when it mattered. Even now, she refused to accept defeat. She was going to fight the Samaritan for every single inch, no matter how impossible the fight now seemed to win.

So what right did he have to abandon her, finally, when she needed him? When the time finally came for him to help her, what audacity persuaded him to turn his back on her? Was he truly that selfish? That lost?

Conrad was many things. An idiot, maybe, but certainly not selfish. Everything he did was selfless...helping his father, helping his wife, helping Shepard...these were selfless acts, were they not? He didn't do them because it brought him happiness, but because he wanted to do the right thing...he just wasn't good at it. But Jenna was...and perhaps that's the point Conrad had missed in his race to self-pity.

Perhaps Conrad didn't need to be the leader...perhaps he excelled at following. And who was to say Jenna could lead...and he followed her?

It wasn't an epiphany that came to him quickly, but it was a poignant one. He wiped his nose, and suddenly, he felt too warm, so he threw the blanket aside, standing from his chair in a rush that he hadn't expected. He paced the room, their words between them echoing within his mind as he was suddenly, sharply and starkly reminded of them.

_"What do we do when the sun burns dimly? We burn it again...until it burns brightly."_

"Jenna..." he muttered, stopping as he stared out the window, imagining that he could see past the cloud cover and out into the void that surrounded the planet he was on. One planet out of thousands, yet just as important as all of them. Out there was Rannoch, and upon that planet was Commander Shepard...his hero, his idol, his role model. A man whose name was being sullied in order to breed insanity, and who was blissfully unaware of what was coming for him and his wife.

Jenna was right. The Samaritan was a cancer that needed to be destroyed and purged from their movement, and those who followed him would need to be dealt with as well. This knowledge filled Conrad with a sudden need to speak with her, and with that, he grabbed his coat and gloves, pulling them back on. Seconds later, he stood before the door, poised to exit the small cabin as quickly as he had entered, exhaling deeply.

Conrad still believed in what the Shepardists believed in. Perhaps there were some who still did...ones that remained loyal to the original vision Conrad and Jenna had birthed, but were remaining quiet until the perfect moment...like Jenna was. Like Conrad would.

Whatever the case, no matter how little allies they had, it was their mission to try. They helped to create this nightmare, and he would be damned if he allowed Jenna to fight this war alone. He would not let the one woman who had followed him into this madness  _believe_ she was alone. No, he would be there.

He was not a leader. He was not a hero.

But he was a follower. And Jenna...that was someone he would follow.

He hit the door panel, and was once again assaulted with a blast of icy air.

But he pressed forward into the darkness, eager to rekindle the light, leaving the warmth behind until such time as he had earned its embrace again.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**This should be a new record. I don't think I've ever gotten through an EQC chapter so fast in...ever. I'm sure you guys don't care, as it still took a while, but I'm rather happy with this chapter and how it turned out.** _

_**On another note, let me know what you guys think of Tikhas! I hope I've made Conrad's change of heart believable, too. Let me know in the review section!** _

_**With that said, Flashpoint snapshots 23 and 24 will be up next. And you better buckle your seatbelts, because Act I of EQC will be ending with the next chapter...Act II is where the "fun" begins. Well, fun for me. Not so fun for you guys.** _

_**Until then,** _

_**Keelah se'lai, troopers!** _

_**Music suggestions:** _

**Tali's Nightmare: "Welcome to the Sprawl" by Jason Graves from the game _Dead Space 2._**

**Garrus Ruminations: "Mitchell's Arm" by Harry Gregson-Williams from the game _Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare._**

**Huerta Infiltration: "Gathering Data" by John Powell from the film _The Bourne Supremacy._**

**Conrad's Decision: "A Leader Is Born" by David Kates and Joshua Mosley from the film _Mass Effect: Paragon Lost._**

__


	16. Surplus for the Discipled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard's wedding looms, and the crew celebrate. The Samaritan is haunted. The Exaltation squad makes its move.

" _At that moment his soul is fuller of the tomb and him who lies there than of the altar and Him of whom it speaks. Such stages have to be gone through, I believe, by all young and brave souls, who must win their way through hero-worship to the worship of Him who is the King and Lord of heroes_." - Thomas Hughes.

* * *

 _Shepard Residence, Rannoch - February 9, 2188 - Three days later_.

One's work tended to be easier and smoother when their thoughts weren't tainted with nagging worries and blistering frustration. Nowhere was this more evident than Shepard's personal project to upgrade and negate his skycar's fuel economy. One that he had been constantly pushing further and further back along his schedule due to his inability to concentrate on said project.

It would be a bit of a shock to any outside observer to really look at and compare the last time Shepard had attempted this project just under a month ago, to now. Back then he had been hopelessly mired in a frustration that served to warp his concentration and impede his progress. The Shepardists had been running rampant, causing mayhem wherever they wandered, only worsening the stress steaming in his head. To attempt any sort of work in a cognizant climate like that was futility. The task was laborious and required a focus that couldn't be gifted to him if he was battling with concerns of galactic religious terrorism and the crises that could result from it.

Back then, Shepard had been a man on the brink of collapse. Everything had frustrated him. The mere mention of 'Shepardist' caused his head to throb. He was pestered with requests to sort it out, to put his face in a public forum again and go to town on the FAICRU with a searing speech that would eviscerate their dwindling public image entirely. His dedication to the Streisand scheme of running away from issues and hoping they'd go away had granted him nothing but further torment and harassment, and he had been edging on his breaking point.

But today he was soaring high. Not literally of course, but his spirits might as well have had wings. The negative effects of his self-deprecating mental proclomations had dissipated to free him of the chains of his woes. Since his speech, the FAICRU had gone completely silent, and rumors were circulating that they had not only begun to break apart, but that the hunt for the Good Samaritan was beginning to narrow, and that he would soon be apprehended. Some more sensationalist news outlets claimed he had already been arrested, and the odd conspiracy theorist believed he had never existed, and that the Shepardists had been an elaborate Council scheme to create a fake boogeyman so as to deflect and distract the public from the Council's numerous failings, and to bring Shepard back into the fold so as to make it appear he supported this. They claimed that Shepard's speech and the subsequent 'disappearance' of the Shepardists was all too convenient, and that the only way to explain it was that the FAICRU simply never existed to begin with. 'There were no WMDs in Iraq', as the saying went. Over a hundred years on, and that saying was still somehow politically contemporary.

Honestly, if he didn't know any better, that theory might have seemed believable. He wouldn't put it past the Council, anyway.

So with the FAICRU essentially out of the picture, and the Good Samaritan's days being numbered, Shepard was finally able to just relax. Even his recent relapse into another seizure hadn't done much to ruin his spirits, especially as it had only helped him to accept his present reality and do more to adapt to it. And as if only to make matters even better, Shepard and Tali had just recently overcome their mutual hesitation regarding children. Both of them had danced around the question like awkward high school teenagers who didn't know to admit their crush for each other, but to finally ambush it out in the open was like another breath of fresh air being inhaled into his lungs. He felt as though he had been struggling to breathe for a while, and this revelation was him finally overcoming that struggle.

That was just six days ago. Since then the two had been spending the rest of their time intermittently getting ready for the wedding, which was now only four days away, and throwing around potential names for the child they hoped to eventually have. None of them cared that a gender for said child wasn't even known yet...it was simply too fun brainstorming names for them to care. They even had mock arguments over which name would be better, and in the end they would just laugh and go on thinking up new names, only to then descend into arguments over those as well. And so the cycle continued, much to his amusement and their collective enjoyment.

And to sum it all up...they were getting married in four days. Just four days until it all changed for the better. Chills ran up his skin just thinking about it, but it didn't disrupt his work like the stress of the FAICRU did. No, it helped him. While Tali was cleaning up around the house, Shepard would work on their skycar, finally deciding one morning to put an end to the problem they had been having with their fuel economy. He was determined to halve it, and he wouldn't stop until he had a solution. So there he was, in the garage, the skycar once again suspended above the ground, with Shepard lying beneath it on his trolley board, wrench in hand and ignition box panel open and exposed, as he had been for a few hours at this rate.

As he thought about the wedding however, his smile drooped a bit, becoming sad for the briefest of moments. He thought of the people who were no longer around that he wished could have been there to see him get married. He thought of Hannah, his mother, who sacrificed her life and the lives of her crew to delay  _Harbinger_ long enough for his troops to reach the Beam. And Anderson...who reached the end only for the Illusive Man to send him to an early grave. Anderson had died at Shepard's side, telling him how proud he was, and how he'd...he'd...

_"I think you'd make a great dad..."_

They deserved better. And it wasn't like neither of them had never met Tali...they both had. Hannah not only after the assault on the Collector Base, and Anderson on the streets of London, where he had given the quarian his blessing if she ever chose to marry Shepard...which of course she did. He hadn't even known this had happened until Tali told him of it one day, which only made Anderson's statement to Shepard all the poignant in his mind.

_He knew...that glorious bastard knew...damn it, Anderson. You deserved to retire happily._

Even Hannah had told Shepard he had chosen well, and that she would have welcomed Tali as a Shepard with open arms. The thought made him dwell on what could have been, and how he wished they had lived to see him finally tie the knot. But they hadn't. They had been added to the enormous casualty lists of the Reaper War, their names forever memoralized on the Reaper War Memorial that now stood in the middle of Hyde Park in London, standing in place of where the Beam once stood. Forever remembered as war heroes. As saviors.

_There you go, mum...now you get to be as famous as me...and you too, Anderson. Now you have enough medals to melt down into a statue the size of the Citadel..._

It wasn't to be, and the pain was still palpable from that knowledge. He would remember them for the heroes they were however, and even if they couldn't be here for quite possibly the most lifechanging decision he would ever make, he was also confident they were watching over him. He wasn't entirely confident in his belief of the afterlife, of the eternal kingdom that the worthy and righteous go to post-expiration, but it felt right to believe in one. To believe in a place free of pain and misery. A place where the deceased could go to enjoy rest forevermore, never having to worry about strife again.

_I'll save both of you a seat, whatever the case may be._

Ultimately, this intramural jeremiad failed to smother his blithesome disposition, and he chose to remember their sacrifice for what it was: a voluntary commitment to the preservation of civil liberty, and a dedication to shellac the Reaper attempt to eradicate all galactic life. They had made their mark on history, going down in the annals as the heroes they were. And while they couldn't be here for him, they were there in spirit, and that was good enough.

Adrift in his work as he had been, his thoughts returned to the present as he fitted in the new ignition box he had bought from the city: a Telüni series T-99A, which was not only newer than the Telüni series T-67SV his skycar had been originally using, but had a higher fuel cycling rate of .8 percent, which was exactly .7 percent higher than the original. And, of course, it had that oh-so-precious one liter liquid eezo fuel requirement that he had wanted, which beat out the three liter of the old. As he finished connecting all the necessary circuits, and reconnected the ignition box to the primary motor, he opened up his omni-tool, linked up with the primary control computer of the skycar, and switched it on. It roared to life...without a single hiccup.

His lips parted to form a toothy grin, and he tapped the underside of the vehicle with his fist, letting out a triumphant grunt.  _Not bad for a shitty mechanic!_ He wiped the grime from his face with a nearby rag, the bleach white cloth now exhaustively soiled with a dark grey damp. He took a deep breath. His shirt was clenched tightly to his body due to sweat, the warm sun of Rannoch out in full force outside and blighting the surface of the planet with a heat that made it difficult to breathe. The garage door was left wide open, a glad breeze wafting inside from the ocean. A welcome bonus to being a coastal resident.

He licked his dry lips, and allowed himself to drop the wrench into his toolkit, zipping up the bag shortly afterwards. Shortly after, he switched off the skycar, watching the distracting cobalt glow of cycling eezo simmer down to a fading blink, until vanishing entirely. He instinctively reached down and massaged hs right thigh, thankful for its passivity when resting. As if to reassure his mind of its full functionality every once and a while, he twisted his right foot around, relieved each time to see it twitch and roll in response to his myoelectrically-distributed commands. Wiping his nose, he chose to rest for a moment, letting his sore arms lie down on his chest, which heaved up and down in time to his heaving lungs.

He briefly considered calling out to Tali to see what she was up to, but as he opened his mouth to form the words, they were caught in his throat, coming out as a goofy, barely audible mumble as he heard something approaching. He knew it was movement because the sound was a rhythmic, two-for-two series of dual-thuds, each timed within microseconds of each other, which could only be footfall. However, he ruled out Tali instantly due to the sound itself...it was deep and heavy, not at all like the careful and delicate movement of a quarian. Wildlife wasn't a possibility either: most of Rannoch's terrestrial wildlife here, the ones that he knew of at least, were four-legged...and the calculated consistency of these footfalls were distinctly humanoid.

His threat analysis didn't get further time to identify this presence before it made itself known. The footfalls stopped concerningly close to where he lay, and within moments, he felt two appendages...most likely hands due to the lack of teeth...grab onto his ankles from where they poked out under the skycar's belly. Their grip was vice-like and monstrously tight...he felt like the bone itself would crack under the pressure. Moments later, his would-be attacker yanked him out from under the vehicle, and being on a trolley board, Shepard was helpless to stop the momentum of the pull from rolling him straight out into the offender's waiting fáilte.

Shepard assumed only one thing in the split second he had to arrange a defense: this attacker was hostile. They had not announced themselves, and their first motion was to manhandle him. The law of self-defense granted him the right to act in whatever capacity he needed to preserve his life. So he acted.

The moment his head cleared the skycar's bonnet, he was greeted by the sight of a monolithic titan of flesh and armoured hide. The shadow he cast blotted out the sunlight from outside, and the cardinal-red irises of his eyes made it look as if the shadow he cast was a presence in and of itself. Their hands let go of his ankles, each of the three-fingers they possessed on each hand looking to be as thick and bony as miniature tree trunks, easily capable of severing his spinal cord with minimal effort. The body of this creature was like a land battleship...and the armor they wore looked more like armoured battleplate had been slapped onto its already impenetrable hull.

A row of crocodile-like teeth appeared as their lips parted into a wicked and terrifying smile, each tooth looking sharp enough to tear through muscle and bone alike. Standing before him was a killing machine, a creature capable of great desolation and slaughter.

Shepard's hands raised to defend himself, assuming as good a combat ready stance as he could while still lying on his back and faced with such a fearsome opponent. But within seconds he relaxed, taking a startingly high amount of comfort in the bewilderingly inviting grin of this herculean brute of a creature. He let his guard down, and his own grin widened in time to his supposed adversary. The two then laughed, and this beast reached down his throat-crushing hand...and offered it to Shepard.

"Fucking hell, you damn oversized lizard," Shepard complained a little, his heart slowing down its bloodthirsty drumbeat, accepting the aid the extended limb offered and allowing himself to be pulled up to his feet effortlessly, foot kicking the trolley board back under the skycar, wiping his head of more sweat, "You could have announced yourself. I thought you were a burglar. Or a murderer."

"Wanted to see if you've gotten soft. You have, but I won't hold that against you," Urdnot Wrex, chieftain of Clan Urdnot and Overlord of the Krogan Confederacy, teased his old friend, looking down on Shepard as he easily towered over his human counterpart, "And I quite honestly resent that assertion. If I wanted to kill you, I'd have brought my shotgun. And if I wanted to steal from you...well, I'd send Grunt to do that. I'm chieftain. I have people who can do that now."

Shepard just cocked an eyebrow at that, chuckling blithely, "Good to see you're not letting that power go to your head."

"I seem to remember you convinced me to go back to my people, Shepard. I blame you," the krogan shot back, obviously not at all offended by what the commander had said. His tone became more of a grumble now, tone resentful and more than a little bit exasperated, "Besides, Bakara does most of the ruling. I just knock heads occasionally and deal with the odd idiot who thinks they can do a better job than I can. Then I beat and humiliate them and they suddenly drop the tough act. Rinse and repeat that, and you've got my role in the politics. Bakara does all the politicking that I can't be bothered dealing with."

"Oh yeah..." Shepard mused, grinning wider as he lightly punched Wrex in the arm, "So it seems I'm not the only one soon to be married, eh?"

"Heard about that, did you? I suppose my PR team did make a bit of a fuss over it," the krogan huffed, seemingly annoyed by that fact as he shook his head, "Damn woman gives me a headache sometimes, but I'll admit, I like her. Besides, she's popular among the female clans, and I need their support if I want to make this Confederacy work. Some of the male clans don't like her, thinks she's trying to grab too much power for the female clans, but I won't hear of it. Our marriage is to make the bond official. It's just a good thing that she tolerates me and I tolerate her. Plus, krogan matrimonies aren't quite the same as the one you and Tali are having."

"They can't be all that different, surely?"

"You intending on breeding with any other women?"

The question was so out of left field that it took Shepard a second to ponder it, but the answer itself was self-evident, at least to him, "Absolutely not."

"My point exactly," Wrex affirmed, "Being married on Tuchanka doesn't incur sexual loyalty. Adultery, and you would put it, is perfectly normal and expected of males wanting to make their way up the food chain. I'm still free for all those breeding contracts, of which there are many.  _Too_ many."

The krogan's tone didn't sound so joyous, "Try not to sound too excited."

"I'm trying," the krogan sarcastically returned, "Being Overlord makes my seed well sought after on Tuchanka, so I'm stuck with it. Essentially every female worth a damn wants to me to pass it on. I hate politics. Things were simpler when we were blasting Reapers all day long and stomping Cerberus' soldiers into the muck. Those were good times. Now my day is filled with listening to Bakara talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and..."

"...and talk some more?"

"Ah, so you understand?"

"In case you don't remember...my wife-to-be is a quarian."

That resonated with Wrex instantly, the krogan's eyes almost sympathetic, "You  _do_ understand."

"Too well, my friend."

A silence passed between them that seemed almost mournful. The subject matter they were discussing, if taken out of context, could almost be mistaken for that of a funeral. Shepard, of course, was only joking...he loved Tali to death, and looked forward to marrying her, but Wrex, despite his admiration of Bakara, sounded like he actually hated the arrangement with how he spoke of it, and the former commander had to count himself lucky that he wasn't krogan in that given moment.

Finally, the silence was shattered as Shepard switched the topic, guiding it away from the oddly-depressing subject matter of Wrex's future political career and towards the more present issue. He knew why Wrex was here...and in truth, he had been expecting the krogan's arrival, as well as that of much of the rest of his crew. In fact, that very reason was why Tali was currently up and about cleaning the entirety of their home...it was going to be a full house for the next few days. Wrex was merely the first of many arrivals that would be streaming in soon enough, "So when did you get here? And where's Grunt?"

"Outside. Not sure what he's doing, but I think he'll be with us in a second," Wrex explained, "And I came down by shuttle only a few minutes ago. Managed to hitch a ride on a diplomatic shuttle coming in from the Citadel. Conveniently had a meeting with the Citadel Council to discuss secure the colonization rights to some of our old colonies that are going unused, and figured we'd just take a shuttle here. They were coming to Rannoch anyway, so I didn't see why not. The security detail I've brought with me for the wedding will be here tomorrow or the next day."

"Fair enough," Shepard accepted, patting the krogan battlemaster on the shoulder with a gladdened smile. It was good to see an old friend, especially now that their meetings were becoming fewer and less in the coming months, "It's good to see you, Wrex. Glad you could be here."

"Wouldn't miss it," the krogan chuckled, slapping Shepard's shoulder in turn. It was a brotherly gesture, but the nature of krogan strength that was that they often forgot to mitigate it when engaging with others not of their species, and a playful slap of the shoulder for a krogan had the force of a punch for non-krogan. He winced at the pain, but grunted it away, simply smiling effusively in return.

Outside, a loud roar was heard: guttural and war-like. This immediately grabbed Shepard's attention, while merely earning an apathetic, half-effort head turn from Wrex. He supposed he couldn't blame the chieftain: when you live on a planet full of krogan, the sound of war cries and murderous chants must be the Tuchankan equivalent of ambient bird song. Par for the course on the krogan homeworld, and no more unusual than crickets chirping.

Naturally, Shepard needn't have worried, and his tensed up posture relaxed once he saw the now-obvious culprit. Outside, standing defiantly and boastfully ontop of a grass-tipped mesa, stood a krogan, only slightly shorter than Wrex himself, blue-eyed and head-to-toe in gleaming silver armor. This armor was potmarked with scratches and indents indicative of sustained combat, and their fearsome maw was a terrific sight indeed.

Urdnot Grunt stared down his foe confidently, the gleeful gleam in his blue eyes steeled and full of sparky fervor. He roared again, thumping his chest and offering a challenge to his enemy, a taunt that offered combat to his nemesis and awaiting their answer.

They returned the challenge, barking back.

Grunt charged, kicking up a dust cloud from where he stood ontop of the mesa, his feet churning up chunks of dirt and depatriating shards of grass. His contender answered with a charge of their own, dashing forward and kicking up a backblast similar to the charging krogan's. Two heads rushed to meet, and their impact promised to send a shockwave that would ripple through the area, chattering jaws and causing their physical collision to be felt for miles.

As it was, Urz simply dashed to the side moments before they met, the sly varren outsmarting his krogan enemy.

Grunt tumbled full speed into the dirt, hitting it face first and sliding to a stop three meters later. Urz barked tauntingly, jumping left and right rapidly and tale wagging excitedly as the varren possibly came to the comprehension that it had just outsmarted this two-legged beast that could talk. The barks continue...whether as taunts or proud declarations of victory, no one would ever be sure.

Grunt pulled himself up, spitting dirt and foreign grass from his mouth and dusting himself off. All the krogan soldier could do was glare at his chieftain as Wrex laughed his ass off, his hearty chuckle infectious and leading to Shepard joining him in short order. Grunt, determined to the end to impress his battlemaster it seemed, took Shepard's own laughter as a challenge to defeat his pet. So he once more got up and turned to face Urz, the varren noticing Grunt's return and locking eyes with him once more, crouching low to the ground and growling.

Grunt's clash with his pet wasn't on his mind for much longer, however, as the distinct pitter-patter of rapid movement running through the house quickly grabbed his attention. The source was made immediately evident to him, and all he could do was pre-emptively step to the side, cross his arms and grin as the footsteps reached the only door to the garage...

The door burst open, quite loudly in fact, and Wrex's eyes turned from watching Grunt's duel with Urz to address this newcomer. Not quite fast enough though, because the moment Tali laid her eyes upon Wrex, she came sprinting towards him at a brisk pace that left even Shepard unable to react accordingly. She was simply at the door one moment, and then three strides later, had her slim arms wrapped around the krogan (well, as wrapped around him as possible, given his size), her greeting a shout that even Grunt heard as he pivoted to face Urz following another unsuccessful charge, grabbing the krogan's attention instantly upon hearing it, "Uncle Wrex! It's good to see you!"

Wrex didn't even look the least bit surprised, and he deferentially returned the hug, albeit more gently so as to not crush the quarian's smaller frame. Shepard frowned suspiciously at that, wondering if perhaps Wrex was deliberately rougher with him than with Tali given the night-and-day difference between his treatment of them. Tali didn't notice however, and pulled away after a few seconds, Wrex reaching up and affectionately patting the top of her hooded head as he regarded her with a tight smirk, "Good to see my quarian niece hasn't lost her spunk. Although it hasn't exactly been years since we met."

Tali's actions and how they were perceived by others only seemed to now begin to settle within her mind, and she gave a quick look around the room before her embarassment began to show, the quarian shrugging indifferently, "Well...it's just good to see you, that's all. It's not like we can just hop back into the  _Normandy_ and visit each other like we could in the old days."

Wrex gave a hearty guffaw at that, holding his stomach as he did, before scratching at a scar on his cheek: one of many wicked and painful looking reminders that this chieftain, as jolly and cordial as he was now, had participated in many hundreds of battles, could be utterly ruthless when necessary, and had conquered many of his krogan kin. This was the same krogan who had shoved a dagger into his father's chest (who admittedly betrayed him and tried to have Wrex murdered on a sacred holy site, which was akin to sacrilege in krogan traditions) and had barely given it a second thought. Right now though, no evidence of that man existed. He was proof that krogan could be more than the violent, barbaric brutes the galaxy believed them to be since the Krogan Rebellions. He possessed a shrewdness and wisdom that any asari matriarch would have been privileged to debate with, and he had proven more than once that he had just as much of an appetite for peace as he did for war and brutality. And Shepard was honored to call him a friend. A blood brother, by krogan laws and traditions, even if they weren't even the same species.

He looked down upon his smaller quarian friend, the woman he affectionately called his niece, and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, showing a gentleness and endearment that few would ever have associated with a krogan battlemaster, "Old days, huh? You make it sound like it happened a generation ago, the last time we fought together. I'm the old one here. By comparison, you're a pup. You and Shepard both. Grunt...well, he quite literally is and isn't. I was born early enough to be part of the last krogan generation of children that was born before the genophage was deployed...I think that grants me more bragging rights than even the oldest asari matriarchs."

"You have to admit though..." Shepard chimed in, drawing both their collective attentions from each other, "...it does feel like a lifetime ago since we last dropped into the blood and guts and took the fight to them."

"Yeah, it does. But that just makes me feel old, and I don't need anymore reasons to feel that way. Being older than that asari justicar is enough to keep me awake sometimes," the krogan exaggeratively drawled, waving a dismissive hand, "No matter. I'm not here to be that one person who starts telling you youngins how it was back in my day. You really don't want to know how a krogan shaman would expect a krogan wedding to be performed. I purposely left the Shaman behind to make sure you wouldn't get that lecture. He can be...well, many shamans are cultural purists. Not xenophobic, but not exactly accepting of other cultures. I somehow doubt you'd appreciate the Rite of First Seed."

Shepard couldn't help the question his morbid curiosity chose to constitute, "And what exactly is that?"

Wrex just grinned, clearly amused by the question, "As Clan Urdnot chieftain, the ancient tradition of the Rite of First Seed means that any marriage between two krogan can only be consummated by my approval. And if the chieftain chooses to do so, and most post-genophage chieftains often do, the chieftain can...well, invoke the Rite of First Seed and bed the married female first."

Tali didn't like that at all, "Wrex, I'm sorry but...that's disgusting!"

Wrex didn't seem fazed by that statement, "I told you wouldn't like it. Of course, the  _kralt_ , or the husband as you would put it, can challenge the chieftain to combat if the rite is invoked. Not many do that though. Its a tradition many Shamans see fit to allow, and even encourage. The genophage made it a necessity. To have a precious, fertile female all to yourself was considered...well, not within the spirit of the people."

Shepard was...well, he didn't know what to think, but he was definitely with Tali in feeling slightly abhorrent of the concept, "When you said your people treated your females like property, I didn't expect that, Wrex. Let me guess, your females also agreed with it?"

"They accepted it, but I don't know if they approved of it," the krogan admitted, "My people have had to do a lot to survive and overcome the genophage, Shepard. Perhaps Bakara will help me put an end to the rite, or at least its use being abused. Point is...there is a lot about krogan weddings you wouldn't like. Most are used as status symbols, and love seldom plays into any of it. We're not as lovey-dovey a people as you quarians and humans and asari, as you've probably figured out."

"Gee, I didn't that was obvious at all," Shepard sarcastically quipped.

"Well, I'm glad  _I'm_ not being used as a status symbol," Tali declared, arms crossed and hip cocked to the side as she performed an exaggerated turn of the head to face him, mirth practically oozing from her tone, "Unless you're not telling me something, John?"

He turned to Wrex jokingly, "Mission has been compromised, Wrex. Gonna need an extract. My plan to use the esteemed and venerate Tali'Zorah vas Normandy to make myself rich and famous is falling through the cracks. I think I've aimed too high."

Tali just scoffed, "Know your station, human. Don't shoot above it."

He snapped to attention, "My apologies, madam. Won't happen again, madam."

Wrex chuckled, the sound loud and decidedly pointed at them, even as he turned to face his favourite quarian engineer, "You've got him whipped and leashed, Tali. This man can go headbutting krogan warriors and shouting down Reapers, but the moment you chastize him for anything, he just gives in? I'm impressed."

Tali, for her part, looked comically impressed with herself, "It's a work in progress."

Shepard was about to reply when he heard the sound of thrusters igniting, causing him to turn and peer around Wrex's enormous hulk to see what it was. Wrex and Tali were quickly drawn to the sound as well, and even Grunt stopped playing with Urz long enough to observe the scene.

What they found was a single kodiak shuttle, spotted with a scheme of blue that caused Shepard to almost mistake it for an Alliance shuttle until he saw it had a white secondary color, not black. The vehicle took off into the air, its approach having apparently gone unnoticed during their conversation, and just as it was about to disappear from view, Shepard noticed the insignia stamped on the edge of the vehicle, and his grin returned in full force as it shot back into the sky.

With the departure of the Blue Suns transport, the group of four watched the form of one Zaeed Massani approach from its landing site alone. It was strange seeing him in anything but his custom combat armor, but the loose shirt he wore and the baggy camo pants that hung around his waist looked just as natural on him as his armor did.

Urz growled at him as he walked past, but Zaeed simply growled back at him, the look on the man's face when he was angry enough to give even Shepard pause. He had seen Zaeed's rage first hand in the past, and it was something to behold, especially given the unstoppable force of nature the experienced, ex-soldier turned mercenary could be when driven to the edge. Even Urz backed down at the sight of it, Zaeed resuming his normal, deadpan expression afterwards as he reached the garage.

"I'm sorry, did I ruin your gossip session? The fuck are you looking at me for?"

"Good to have you hear, Zaeed," Shepard welcomed, extending a hand to the merc, who promptly shook it.

Zaeed just scoffed, "I'm here for two things, Shepard, and I'll be blunt: booze and fucking strippers. I hear you've got one hell of a bachelor party planned, so you can count me the fuck in."

Shepard frowned at that, but it quickly morphed into a scoff and the shake of the head, "Garrus was the one organizing that, so I'll deal with him later, but I can assure you there will be no strippers, Zaeed. This is Rannoch. You know...with quarians. I don't think they've really embraced, or ever will embrace, the idea of showing off one's body lewdly for another's pleasure on a stage."

Zaeed didn't seem to like that, "Damn fucking shame. Still, at least there's alcohol. Can't fuck that up, I suspect. As long as the shit doesn't goddamn kill me, I'll drink the fucking lot of it."

The rest followed in short order. The crew must have decided upon their joint arrivals, because Wrex turning up quickly resulted in the rest of the crew flowing in one after the other. After Wrex, Grunt and Zaeed had moved inside and settled down, another shuttle had arrived, this one depositing both Jacob and Miranda, both of them carrying wedding gifts: Jacob brought one for Shepard, and Miranda one for Tali. Whatever it was, Miranda had wanted to show Tali in secret, as they quickly disappeared into the bedroom afterwards. Jacob meanwhile had no problem showing off his gift to Shepard infront of everyone: a few laughs later, and a new item made its home on the mantlepiece resting just fellow the vidscreen.

'Help, I've Married An Alien' would make a great addition to his collection, if ever got around to watching it.

Next to arrive was Joker and EDI from the  _Normandy_. Then Samara and Liara, both of them bearing gifts of their own, although only one was physical: Samara's gift involved words, ones only meant for Tali and Shepard to hear separately. It was clear the words themselves, which were recited from an ancient asari book of prayers that was so old that it predated asari space travel, were extremely important to Samara...and she meant every word of it. He made sure to tell her how much he appreciated them.

Eventually, their house was practically filled to the brim with members of the  _Normandy_ crew, past and present, reminiscent of how it had been filled similarly during their housewarming party last year. The last people to arrive funnily enough were Garrus and Kasumi, despite having been on the  _Normandy_ , which had been in orbit for a few days now. Upon Shepard opening the front door, Kasumi immediately locked onto to Tali and the two immediately began chatting away, leaving Garrus and Shepard to watch with some amount of bemusement.

The two spent the next few moments greeting each other, but it wasn't long before Garrus' face and tone turned a bit serious, the turian motioning to upstairs, "Shepard, can we talk privately for a few minutes? I know you don't want to talk about it, but I've got an update on-"

"Sure," he cut off the turian, already moving towards the stairs, "We can talk in my office. Follow me."

It took less than a few minute for the pair of them to egress the stairs and reach the end of the second storey hall, Shepard only closing the door to his office once Garrus was inside. The sounds of chatter and laughter wafting in from downstairs were cut off immediately, greatly muting them and granting them some respite to discuss within.

He turned to face the turian, leaning his back against the doorway and crossing his arms expectantly. Worry inevitably began to rise within him again, especially given the turian's serious tone. He had assumed the Shepardists were done for, but if that wasn't the case..."I'm going to assume this has to do with the Shepardists? Please tell me they haven't-"

Garrus held up a hand to stay him, shaking his head, "Yes, it is. But it's not what you think. In fact...I've got good news. Council just contacted me an hour ago. I didn't ring to tell you because I wanted to wait until I could inform you in person."

His tension lessened with Garrus' reassurance, but not by much. He remained skeptical, "And?"

He didn't mince words at least, "They got him, Shepard. They've arrested the Good Samaritan. Tracked him down to a house he was operating out of on Eden Prime. Right under our nose the whole time."

His eyes widened as he truly comprehend what this meant. His mouth opened and closed in an attempt to form an answer, but potential responses came and went without a sound leaving his lips. The news itself was simply astounding. To discover that a man, who had seemingly been so illusive and uncapturable, had now finally been cornered and brought to justice...it seemed too hard to believe. It seemed  _too good_ to be true.

Enough that he had to question it, "Do they have proof? How do they know they got him?"

Garrus exhaled deeply, mandibles twitching and nostrils flaring in equal parts disbelief, "I was skeptical of it too, but apparently this guy has been at the cultist business for a long time. A  _really_ long time. As in four years. All that's changed is who he's idolizing and who is following him. Guy has a long list of casualties behind him, too. Former Alliance marine, too. What got him in the end was that he slipped up. The guilt of what he did apparently got too much for him to bear. Guilty conscience brought him down in the end. He confessed to one of his friends and they turned him in."

Shepard shook his head again, still finding it too hard to believe, "I can't believe...they finally have him. They actually got him. Did they find any of his co-conspirators? The rest of the Shepardists? What about...what about Conrad?"

Garrus braced himself against Shepard's unoccupied desk, sighing, "Nowhere to be found, I'm afraid. Either they scattered like rats when they found out the Council was coming, or the Samaritan really did disband the organization after your speech. Same goes for Conrad. All gone."

"I see. I guess we should count our good graces that we captured the Samaritan at all. Chop the head off the snake, and the rest of its body will follow," Shepard declared. Pondering on it for a moment longer, he frowned and looked back at the turian, one last factor still irking him, "Wait...Conrad said the Samaritan knew me personally...do we know who this guy is?"

The look he saw in Garrus' eyes confirmed to him that they in fact did. He remained adamant in wanting to know however, and quietly waited for the turian's answer, which wasn't far away, Garrus taking but a mere second to compose himself with a regretful, almost awkward sigh, "Yeah...then there's that. Council hasn't disclosed his identity to the public yet, but as a spectre, I was informed immediately. Shepard, I said this guy had a history with cultist activity. I know that because we both encountered it first hand. Shepard, the Samaritan is Major Kyle. Major Norman Kyle."

If his jaw could have dropped to the floor, it would have. Not out of shock for this revelation...but shock for not having seen it. Now that he knew the truth, it seemed so bloody obvious. The facts fit, the history fits, the personality fits...it all fit perfectly like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Not a single piece seemed out of place, and the idea that Major Kyle could be the Good Samaritan...not a part of it seemed unlikely.

Major Kyle knew Shepard quite well...he should, because Shepard was under his command during the First Battle of Torfan, and a member of one of the many units the inexperienced, career-obsessed major had sent needlessly into the carnal slaughterhouse that had been the frontlines. Kyle's incompetence, and the resulting trauma he was diagnosed with after learning virtually all the forces assigned under his command had been wiped out, led to him going insane and being driven into early retirement via dishonorable discharge. Years later...and Kyle, seeking to redeem himself, took up with a group of disenfranchised biotics who felt the Alliance had wronged and spurned them with their refusal to adopt legislation approving reparations to biotics who were mistreated during what was called the 'Conatix Golden Age' in the early years of the Alliance's research into biotics. Kyle wasn't a biotic himself...he had simply latched onto a group of people he identified with, and found a path to redemption. In the end, the biotics saw him as a protector, as a father...and eventually, they developed a cult of personality around him.

The Alliance marines, committed to the age ol' marine mantra that no marine is ever left behind, and that they look after their own, eventually tracked down Kyle and were cleared to send two officers to bring Kyle in to treat his PTSD. Kyle, volatile and bordering on insanity, had them killed, as he feared they were trying to separate him from 'his children.' Not wanting to risk a bloodbath, Hackett resorted to the only option he thought he had left short of a commando raid: he called in Shepard, hoping he would dismantle the situation. Luckily, Shepard and Kyle knew each other, and after minutes of discussion, Kyle broke down and began sobbing...endlessly apologizing to Shepard for getting all his men killed. Shepard forgave him...and Kyle turned himself in.

He figured it would end in the man getting better. Obviously, he had been wrong. It seemed Kyle was forever doomed to chase redemption.

The immediate thought that infected him upon learning this was that his confrontation with Kyle all those years ago had actually made his insanity worse. Instead of chasing redemption in helping pleading and abandoned biotic citizens...he discovered Shepard, and in believing he somehow needed to earn Shepard's forgiveness following Torfan, he started up the FAICRU...and the rest was history. It fit the facts. It made sense.

And that realization only made it worse. He thought he had righted Kyle's course. Helped him to see the error of his ways. Instead he had only made it worse, and it only took years for that to become evident.

Garrus, apparently oblivious to Shepard's ruminations, continued, "Kyle's been denying it the entire time, but C-Sec apparently has enough evidence to convict. Council is going to hit him with charges of terrorism, encitement, and at least one count of capital murder. Suffice to say, he's going away for life, unless he pleads insanity, which given his history and what the Alliance knows about him, he'll no doubt get clemency on that. He'll get 45, sentence suspended until he's sought pyschological help. At the very least, we won't have to worry about him or the Shepardists anymore. I just never would have figured it would be Kyle...I really thought you had set him on the right path, Shepard. He even seemed genuine. He handed himself in."

"I know," Shepard shrugged, rubbing his eyes despairingly, "But I guess nobody how good a judge of character I can be at times, I'm not perfect. I misjudged Kyle and people paid for it in the end. Nothing we could have done about it, unfortunately. Let's just be glad the hunt is finally over and they caught the bastard."

"Yeah...of course, you're right," Garrus capitulated, moving back towards the door, "Anyway...I just thought you'd like to know that it's finally over. No more Shepardists. No more watching your back."

He only spent another few, scant moments contemplating the revelation of Kyle's return before he pushed them aside, deciding to worry about them another time.  _I thought Kyle was a different man than I initially assessed. I made a mistake, but now I know not to trust him again. Whatever the case may be, the threat the Samaritan posed is over. The FAICRU are finished and he'll be looking at a lengthy jail sentence. I've got absolutely zero to be worried about._

As if to demonstrate this, he looked up and met the turian's gaze, smile returning in full force, "Damn right. Thanks for letting me in on the scuttlebutt, Garrus. I'm just happy that shit is over with. No more crazy fanatics."

The turian just chuckled, Shepard stepping aside to allow the turian to approach and twist open the door knob, granting them exit from the small, confined room. As the door opened, the muted laughter and talk from down below seemed to have completely evaporated, although this wasn't immediately evident to the two, who were still too busy talking to each other to pay it any notice, "Let's not talk about that anymore. Forget the Samaritan and forget the Shepardists! The next few days are about you and Tali! And I think you're going to positively  _love_ what I have planned for the bachelor party tonight."

Shepard stopped halfway through the doorway, fixing Garrus with a pointed stare of shock and confusion, "Hold up... _tonight_? You didn't say anything about it being tonight, Vakarian."

The turian didn't seem the list bit deterred at all, pressing on like it was perfectly expected, "And you're telling me you've got stuff planned for tonight?"

"Well, no..."

"Then it's a done deal!" the turian waved away his concerns like mere hindrances, motioning for Shepard to follow him down the hall. Shepard did just that, matching the turian's strides verbatim, "Kasumi is probably working at persuading Tali to do the same with her bachelorette party. Tali's not too fussed apparently, but you know Kasumi...she'll get her to come around. I've already searched through El'Tivv for an establishment with the stuff we want, and I think I've found it. Reasonably new, only just set up. Apparently they're already in high demand, especially for quarians looking to...relieve some stress. Plenty of booze, asari strippers, some quarian dancers for you specifically, and-"

"Hold the hell up," Shepard interrupted, halting Garrus' list of features as they arrived near the bottom of the stairs, "You arranged all of this without telling me? And strippers? Dancers for  _me_? You do realize I'm getting married, right? Are you trying to get me to commit infidelity mere days before I'm supposed to marry Tali?"

Garrus just shrugged, still not seeing the problem, "Well, you did make me your  _prelatum ostri_...the point is to worry about this kind of stuff for you, not burden you with the details. I thought one of the points of these 'bachelor parties' of yours was to test your fidelity? I know that's not exactly necessary with someone like you, but the strippers aren't  _entirely_ for you. And the dancers? Come on, there's nothing wrong with appreciating a little dance...surely Tali doesn't have a problem with that, right?"

 _The issue is that it's Tali body I appreciate, not some random quarian woman._ He didn't vocalize this question, choosing to simply glare back at the turian like the answer was obvious. When the turian didn't get the hint, he sighed exasperatingly, tired of the turian's apparent density, "I know the point is to prove fidelity, but I'm hardly in need of that, am I?"

Garrus just reached up and grasped Shepard's shoulder, grinning, "My advice to you, Shepard: just let it happen. Everything's been arranged. Just sit back, relax...enjoy yourself! Another point of bachelor parties is to celebrate your last day of true freedom! If I know you and Tali, the concept of 'freedom' is going to become very vague to you in the coming years...so just accept it! Have some fun!"

Any further objection Shepard could mount was ignored as the turian turned from him and beat a hasty retreat down the stairs. Deciding it was a waste of time to try and argue with Garrus, he simply rolled his eyes and followed after him, lightly limping down the steps until he joined the turian at the bottom.

What he found in the living room was not what he expected. Wrex, Grunt, Zaeed, Jacob...pretty much every single male member of the crew were nowhere to be found, and Garrus seemed to be just as confused as he stood in the doorway, eying the room that was now filled entirely with women. Joining him in the middle, Shepard noted that Tali was seated on the couch, Kasumi and Ashley flanking her sides, with the rest of the women surrounding her and chatting away quietly to themselves. They seemed to have caught the women in the middle of a...rather vivid discussion, if Jack's mime of a fist being slammed into a hand whose fingers were formed into the shape of an 'O' was any indication (it was obvious what that symbolism was supposed to be, and Tali looked rather uncomfortable in the face of it).

All eyes turned to face the two men, but it was Jack who spoke first, "You two fucking mind? I'm giving Tali here a lesson on the art of truly pleasing a-"

"John,  _neh'sah_!" Tali shouted, hands lying in her lap and looking like she desperately wanted to be anywhere else rather than where she sat. Embarassed beyond all reprieve, she pointed a finger awkwardly towards the back of the house, "The others are out the back. Um...you should probably go...and talk with them. We're-uh..."

Kasumi quickly jumped to explain that away, cutting off Tali's cumbrous diatribe, "Girl talk, Shep. Now shoo, both of you."

Shepard grinned, grabbing Garrus' shoulder and beginning to guide him away from the archway, "Have fun, love. Talk more later."

Tali just sunk further into the sofa, clearly not appreciating the comment.

Moving down the hall, Shepard and Tali left the girls to their talk, and honed in on the sound of Wrex's booming laugh coming the pool area. Still grasping the turian's shoulder, he leaned in, whispering into the turian's ear, "We're going to talk... _about the strippers_."

Garrus just laughed...but the sound wasn't as confident as it was previously. Shepard just grinned victoriously, patting the turian on the shoulder as they headed to join their friends at the back.

Tonight would be interesting, to say the least.

* * *

 _Shepardist Sanctuary, Sanctum - February 9, 2188 - 47 minutes later_.

He popped the pills into his mouth, downing them with a large gulp of water. The cool liquid slid down his throat, washing the pills down with it on its path down to his stomach. The dihydroergotamine would perform its wonders as it always did, paralyzing the affliction that dared to try and corrupt and poison him when he grew complacent and stopping it dead in its tracks. Every day he remained grateful for its miraculous effects, even if it didn't serve as an inoculation for whatever befouled him. It would serve to help him concentrate on his work, and keep his focus clean and clear. He could not falter in times like this, not when the galaxy needed him this badly.

Two pairs of eyes silently and nervously watched him hungrily consume the tablets, the image like that of someone who had been famished for days and was only now consuming the bread that would save them from starvation. And this image was not inaccurate: he was indeed hungry, and these tablets were capsulized circumvallation against the migraines that would he feared would cripple him if he didn't remain vigilant. He allowed them to watch, their studious stares and disagreeable posture keeping them respectful and moderate. He would address them when he was ready, and they knew and accepted this. The Samaritan didn't like to abuse his power, but when he felt he needed to, he would make an example of it.

There was only one other occupant of the room: a well-built and substantial wall of brawn, Krato Drobmachar's presence was every bit as imposing and unnerving as Grirbon Krend's. The krogan was currently off working on a side project the Samaritan had assigned him, one that had need of his unmatched skills as an armourer. Without Krend to protect him, he had ordered Roman to assign a member of Exaltation to protect him, and Krato had been his pick. As strong as he was menacing in simple presence, the Samaritan doubted many in his organization would risk provoking the batarian. And to the ex-soldier's credit, he hardly made a sound. He was like a statue, all pose and no noise, and the batarian-made AT-12 Raider shotgun on his back would dissuade those with the proclivity towards violence.

Not that the Samaritan had much of either to fear from these two.

Conrad Verner and Jenna McLean sat on the opposite of his desk, facing him, their chairs parted from each other at a fair distance. Their attitude towards the other was most telling: distrust. It appeared the Samaritan's theory had proven correct, and the two had indeed had a falling out in their relationship. The cause of which was none of his concern...no, the true reason they were here was to ascertain the threat this would pose to their usefulness as his lieutenants. He needed cohesion and solidarity of ideology within this organization, and he couldn't have petty squabbles between separated partners potentially undermine that party line. He would have to set them straight.

"Neither of you need to be informed of why you are here," he opened up, leaning back in his seat and clasping his hands in his lap, looking between each of them, "I believe you're already aware of it. Let me make this clear: your relationship is none of my business. I don't pretend to care. What I  _do_ insist on knowing is whether or not this will affect your ability to properly run this movement at my side. We cannot have any hiccups. The Crusader is relying on us, and being this close to the judgment hour, we cannot risk failure. I need to know your heads are in the game, my friends."

_Yes, we are very close to judgment hour indeed. All the pieces are in play. Tikhas should be back soon, and the Exaltation squad I've set up will rescue the Crusader. Things are happening much more quickly than I expected, but all things considered, we're nearing completion. I cannot afford to allow these two to ruin that with their own indiscretion._

Jenna was the first to respond, squarely looking at the Samaritan and not seemingly not even warranting Conrad a glance. The man in question, meek as always, remained fascinated with whatever invisible object his mind perceived to be in his lap, fingers fiddling with the fabric of pants instead of defending himself as the Samaritan had requested. Jenna was the opposite, one leg crossed ontop of the other and her tone all severity and business, "The Crusader is our only priority. Conrad I'm sure recognizes that, but I can assure you that I am one hundred percent with the program. I will not waver. I will do what is necessary to facilitate the Advocation, whatever that may be. My...breakup with Conrad...not withstanding."

The Samaritan smiled, nodding with an impressed crease of the lips, "I hear promises, but words are wind. I want you to show me your dedication. You've told me you're committed, now prove it. Stand by my side as we manage this operation and make sure it goes by without a hitch. Have I made that as clear as possible, Jenna? I know we've had our differences, and that your breakup is likely the result of those grievances, but you must understand we're working towards the same goal. Do not  _fight_ me,  _work_  with me. You can hate and argue with me all you like, but when it truly matters, we must be on the same page. That is  _all_  I ask."

This time, Jenna  _did_  falter, if only for a brief second. She shot Conrad a hesitant stare, almost like she was looking for confirmation from him, but just as she had done to him, he returned in favor: he refused to meet her eyes. Garnering no support from him on that endeavour, she turned back to the Samaritan, straightened her back and nodded, "I do not like you, but I will work with you. For the glory of the Crusader. Conrad and I have agreed to set our own feelings aside to work towards the greater good. The breakup was amicable."

"Very good," he returned, now turning away from her to face Conrad, who still hadn't looked at him or Jenna since he sat down. He paid Jenna no mind as he delivered his ultimatum, gaze enciting the mute Conrad to speak up and make his peace, "But I want to hear him say it."

There was no denying who the statement was aimed towards, and even Conrad, as oblivious and languid as he physically appeared, was not entirely unaware of this fact. The man finally chose to pay attention with something other than his ears, and he pulled his head up to look back at the Samaritan directly. Jenna regarded him with quiet curiosity, the look in her eyes pleading. Meanwhile, the Samaritan made sure to fix the former leader-turned-lieutenant with a gaze of unshakeable serenity, patiently awaiting his response.

The look in Conrad's eyes was like that of a man who had finally broken under the stress. His nervous and ecstatic energy, his weak-willed convictions and the twinkle in his eye that came with his rambunctious composure was drained away like an infection from a wound, the sterilized substitute of a man nothing but an empty vessel of conformity and acceptance. He put up little fight, and it was clear to him that before Conrad even made a sound that the Samaritan could be sure he posed little threat. He was without worth...an insect whose sense of purpose had been shattered, and now existed solely to perform the Crusader's bidding.

Conrad delivered his promise regardless, empty eyes providing promises of which he would most assuredly and blindly keep, "My mind, my will, my body, is yours and the Crusader's to command. Just as he will not let the Herald get in the way of his mission, I will not allow Jenna and my past feelings for her compromise us. The primary tenets of our faith are founded upon sacrifice. Just as we have all sacrificed to build this organization, we will sacrifice the rest in order to be the harbingers of peace and comeuppance to this galaxy. Glory to the Crusader."

The Samaritan couldn't help the smile flinching at the sides of his mouth. He had known Jenna and Conrad would come around to his line of thinking eventually...and he had been correct. Just as he was always correct, "Excellent. The time is coming where your allegiance and vigilance will be sorely needed, and you best be ready, because it approaches fast. I will broker no failures here. We must succeed, whatever the cost, my friends. You are my lieutenants. Make it so."

A knock was heard on the door, instantly gaining his full attention. He turned to Krato, who was already looking at him for silent approval. He nodded, and the batarian took this as confirmation as he reached up with a fist and hit the door interface, perhaps a little too hard, and the door shot open. Waiting in the doorway was the slim form of a drell, hands clasped behind their back and head held high and proudly. The Samaritan wasted no time, standing up from his chair, "Ah, Mr. Keal. You have returned. I assume you have something to report?"

"I have what you asked for, and returned as soon as I could," the drell replied, always perceivably speaking with the lowest and most hushed of tones, almost like he was perpetually cautious of being overheard. No doubt such a trait came with the trade, which only made Samaritan all the more appreciative of his skills, especially if his discreet approach to important tasks helped in the long run. The drell stopped part way into the room, eying the forms of the two humans seated infront of the Samaritan's desk, "I wasn't informed you had visitors."

So inwardly excited by Tikhas' return and the promise of new knowledge it brought with him was he that he had already forgotten Jenna and Conrad's presence in the room. Giving the drell a conciliatory nod, he looked back down, arm extending to motion to the door, "You are both dismissed. Please take my advice soundly and heed it well. Glory to the Crusader."

"Glory to the Crusader," they repeated, as every Shepardist did in passing.

Pushing their seats in, the former couple took their leave of the room, and only once the door closed shut behind them, Tikhas' watching their departure every step of the way, did the infiltrator approach the Samaritan's desk, carefully placing a datapad on its wooden surface before spinning it around so that it faced him properly.

"Shepard's medical reports, as ordered," Tikhas declared, a hint of pride in his tone. The Samaritan chose to let that slide, especially given such ego was evidently warranted by the very knowledge he had obtained. The drell had likely already surmized as such, but he had meant this mission to have a dual purpose: to be a test of the drell's capabilities and to attain the medical documents needed to begin the Crusader's rehabilitation once he was rescued. If the datapad before him was verifiable, then he had successfully achieved both angles. As if to prove this, the drell's next statement was, "If this was an attempt to test my abilities Good Samaritan, I hope you're satisfied with the results."

He couldn't help but grin, as uncharacteristic of him as that seemed. Internally, he was giddy with anticipation, because this man had performed beyond expectations, meaning the Exaltation squad was not just practical on paper...one of it's members was now a proof of concept. If the rest of Exaltation could live up to the standard Tikhas had set, then he had no doubt Witch Hunter would be a success beyond imagining.

He sat down again, reaching forward to pluck up the datapad Tikhas had rewarded him with and quickly flicking through it. As promised, literally hundreds of pages worth of medical history and treatments were listed, all stamped and authenticated with the digital signatures of Doctor Christopher Stoneman, Karin Chakwas and Samuel McLeod, Shepard's presiding doctors. It was a gold mine of information, one that would take months to sift through, especially to find the information they actually needed and to sort it out from the junk information. But what was here...Tikhas had done it. He hadn't just grabbed a single piece of medical data...he took the entire jackpot and got away with it.

"Mr. Keal, I believe you've done more than I asked for," the Samaritan declared, still focused entirely on the data that went by in a blur as he swiped through page after page of relevant information, "If I had any doubts about Krend's confidence in you, they've been erased. You've proven yourself quite the asset, and worthy of your place by the Crusader's side. With your help, we finally have the first piece we need to reversing the Herald's influence over him. Now we need only rescue him. A much more difficult task, but..." he looked up, regarding both Tikhas and Krato, while also keeping in mind the rest of the Exaltation squad, "...I have no doubt you'll succeed. It's why you're here."

Tikhas didn't reply immediately, but the Samaritan initially took that as the drell soaking in the praise he was being offered. But only a few moments later, and the drell spoke once more, this time sounding more worried than effusive, "Good Samaritan...there's a problem. I read through some of the files as I was downloading them, and I came across a reference to something that I found quite alarming. I believe it requires your attention."

He frowned, ceasing his mindless browsing as he looked up at the apprehensive drell, whose cold expression betrayed none of the concern that was oozing from his voice, "And what might that be?"

"Page 320," Tikhas simply offered, "The information is all there."

He eyed the infiltrator for a moment, finding his disciple's illusive vagaries to be concerning. Whereas before he had been all confidence and boastful demeanour, he now appeared anxious and worried. This had the effect of spreading to the Samaritan, whose initially satisfied imprimatur was now shifting to sharing the same worry Tikhas exhibited, if only because the drell told him he should be. Deciding it would be best to see what he spoke of, he returned his focus back to the datapad, searching for the relevant page number that he had been so urgently directed to. Finding it, he did a read through, and hesitation quickly turned to genuine bewilderment, and finally into fully realized horror.

Lowering the datapad, he stared at the top of his desk for a moment, before eventually gaining the will to yank it up so he could face Tikhas, "How were we not aware of this? This...this complicates the mission. If this...'Stoneman's syndrome' is what it sounds like it is, then the Crusader isn't...he isn't medically fit for the duties he will be required for."

"Exactly my fear, Good Samaritan," Tikhas echoed, shaking his head broodingly, "As for not being aware of this...nobody does. The Crusader kept it a secret. His signature and Doctor Stoneman's can be found at the bottom as part of the patient-doctor confidentiality agreement, and the third signatory...the third signatory is the Herald. Only she, the Crusader and this Doctor Stoneman know about it."

The Samaritan scoffed, finding himself not at all surprised by that little detail. He stood up, pushing his chair out so he could pace the room, hands clasped behind his back as he looked blankly at a wall, not paying any attention to Tikhas or Krato. He once again found himself lost in his thoughts, trying to find an answer to this new predicament that would be reasonable. But this revelation made this far more difficult than usual. It was one thing to convince the people the Crusader would save them...but if those had access to knowledge that proved he was incapable of that? What would they say then?

And the Herald...her taint was all over this.

_Of course she signed off on keeping this a secret. She probably whispered these poisonous suggestiont in his ear...convinced him to keep it from the public domain. If she can keep it that way, she can use this Stoneman's syndrome to control and manipulate him even more effectively. A weakened Crusader, both mentally and physically, is no threat to anyone...especially not to her. The Herald is only as effective as her manipulation. This syndrome is simply just another one of the tools at her disposal. She truly is proving a worthy adversary, but like it or not, we will expose her corruption and dismantle her fantasy. We just need to find a way to do that._

Where to go from here...there could only be  _one_ way forward. The rescue mission would have to continue as planned...if anything, the need for it had only become greater. This Stoneman's syndrome, whatever it might be, was but one more obstacle staring them in the face that they, as well as the Crusader, had to overcome. That is why he ordered Tikhas to get these documents in the first place: to help in rehabilitation. If that included subduing and defeating this disease, then that's what it would include. If they were lucky, these documents would also include a way to defeat this disease, or at the very least treat it. If a vaccine could be conceived, all the better for it. Whatever the case they be, they would use the resources at their disposal to restore the Crusader to his former self.

Not even a disease would stop that. Nor would the Herald.

He turned, ready to tell Tikhas this, but found himself focusing on something else the moment he pivoted back around to speak to him. There was an object standing beside Krato, where the batarian now stood: he had since moved over to the Samaritan's desk, and was now reading through the relevant document on Shepard's condition. A head shorter than him, and around the same size. The harder he looked, he came to realize that this wasn't an object...it was a  _person_. He squinted to make out their features, despite them being mere meters from where he stood, but they seemed to be constantly shifting in and out of focus, warping his vision uncomfortably. From what he could make out, they wore combat armor...but he couldn't make out the colors due to the armor, and most of their body, being drenched in a thick, mucilaginous-liquid that dripped onto the floor at a steady beat, already having formed a large puddle around them. The drips were audible, almost deafening in fact, and the more he focused on them, the louder they became, causing him to wince.

He couldn't make out their facial features either, looking like they wearing somekind of half-helm that obscured their face. What confused him the most was that he didn't recognize who this person was, how they came in without him noticing, or why neither Tikhas or Krato seemed to know he was there. The man stood right next to the batarian, drenched head-to-toe in foul fluid. Why was he here? What was that liquid? And why did he seem to be staring right at the Samaritan?

Despite not being able to see eyes on this individual at all...he could somehow feel them trained on him, boring into him mercilessly.

Then he blinked. When his eyes next opened, the individual was gone. The pool of secretion gathering at their feet was nowhere to be seen, and there was no sign they were ever there. Not even Krato or Tikhas seemed to notice. This scared the Samaritan, who felt his eyes widen subconsciously in fear.

_No...I took the damn tablets. The hallucinations should be gone...maybe I need to up the dosage..._

"Good Samaritan?" Tikhas asked, breaking through the Samaritan's paralysis. He blinked again, snapped out of his confusion and building trepidation by the drell's words, thankful to be distracted.

"Yes," he replied hesitantly, shaking his head as he rubbed at his temples. He decided to brush any postulation he might have had in regards to the unknown figure he had just hallucinated standing beside Krato, and quickly returned to the topic at hand, thoughts wrapped up in the Crusader once again. He made his way back to his desk, speaking as he moved, "Yes, this is most troubling news indeed. Has anyone else been informed of this? Have you told anyone?"

Tikhas didn't hesitate to answer, "I came straight to you. I haven't even told Roman yet."

"And you never will," the Samaritan declared, sitting down and clasped his hands ontop of the desk. He shot a look at Krato as he did this, eyes fiery and alight with austere warning, "The same goes for you, Drobmachar. Not a single person out of this room is to be told of this. The only other person who I will inform is Krend, and only so he can make the necessary adjustments to his project."

"What project?" Tikhas queried, his curiosity apparently overturning his personal censor.

"A project needed for the Advocation. Beyond that, I cannot and will not tell you. You will find out in due time when I think the Crusader is ready for it," the Samaritan scatchingly dismissed, both answering the question  _and_ yielding little information in the process, "Suffice to say, it will provide the Crusader with the tools he needs to crush his enemies. It must be kept secret for now. I will not have idiots like that excitable Mankins disclosing its existence to the galaxy by accident."

Krato however didn't seem as fazed by this as he did the original declaration the Samaritan had set down on the table, the batarian's three functioning eyes snapping to look down at his human leader, "And why must we keep this secret? Do the Crusader's disciples deserve to be kept in the dark? And what of our unit? They are the Crusader's honor guard. They must be made aware."

He met Krato's ironclad glare in kind, not willing to be intimidated by his own followers, regardless of their ability to tear his head from his body. He was the Crusader's hand, and even Krato knew the significance of that enough to not risk harming a hair on his head. That confidence in his safety fueled him, face inches from Krato's, "Because this information, as you've just read, could compromise the very core of our ideology. If it got out that the Crusader has seizures if he simply runs a little, our movement would fall apart. And if the rest of your squad knew? I've seen Roman...gotten a feel for the man. He follows strength and conviction, and if he discovers this, he'll become a liability."

"So that's it then, is it?" Krato backed away, proving the Samaritan's theory right as he crossed his arms, "We do nothing? Pretend everything is fine?"

"I didn't say that," he assuaged, straightening his shirt as he lay back in his chair, eying both Krato and Tikhas despite the latter's respectful silence, "We'll keep the problem a secret, and find a solution to it. Like I said, Krend will be informed and make whatever adjustments he needs to his project to eliminate these issues. And if need be, we will find the necessary doctors and medical equipment to make the Crusader whole again. I am entirely committed to making our dream, the dream the Crusader has for all of us, a reality. I will not accept a disease toppling that dream, and by the same token, I will not allow fear, paranoia, misunderstanding and panic to undo what we've built. We've come far too close to victory to allow news of a...a few seizures...to cripple us."

"He's right, Krato," Tikhas reassured the unconvinced batarian, surprisingly coming to the Samaritan's side of thinking despite being mostly neutral during the brief argument, "To tell anyone else of this would only fracture us. Can you imagine what our enemies would do if this information fell into their hands? They'd use it. To divide and conquer us. Just imagine the damage the Herald could do if she used such a leak to her advantage."

"Exactly," the Samaritan reinforced, standing up and bracing himself against the table with his arms, each hand balled into fists along the smooth mahogany surface, "We keep a lid on it, and quietly resolve this. Roman, Breen, Cann, Rela...they need not know, and neither does anyone else. If you truly care for the Crusader, you will do this for me. For him."

Krato still didn't look sold on the idea, and the Samaritan could somewhat understand where that hesitation came from. Krato was a former Hegemony soldier, so he understood more than anything what secrecy resulted in. It got people murdered, imprisoned the rest and it started wars. Secrecy and shut mouths had ruled the Hegemony for centuries, and all it did was result in the gradual decline of his people's status as a people to be reckoned with, and now it was on the verge of collapsing. Krato joined the Shepardists to escape that, or so the Samaritan believed, and thought the Crusader would be the catalyst to helping stop that.

And now he was being asked to keep details crucial to the Crusader's survival secret from the rest of the organization. It was a difficult choice, but one the Samaritan hoped reason would prevail in. No matter the man's belief on propaganda, this knowledge could mean the life or death of the FAICRU. It was a dangerous bomb that had to be disarmed, and he hoped an explosive expert such as Krato himself would appreciate that when it came down to it.

The Samaritan's hopes paid off. After a few hesitant looks exchanged between him and Tikhas, he sighed, waving an arm, "I won't tell a soul what I've read and heard. This I swear."

"I know it's difficult, but it's for the greater good," the Samaritan promised, exhaling deeply out of relief that the batarian had chosen to see the situation his way, "It'll all be worth it. As I told Jenna and Conrad just moments before...this movement is all about sacrifice. We will have much more to sacrifice before this is over, but just know that this is the least of them."

He sat back down once more, hoping for the last time, as silence descended upon the room. The datapad containing the details of the scourge infecting the Crusader sat tauntingly close to him, mocking him with potentially disastrous information it contained. If this was allowed to leak...the ramifications it could have on the entire organization would most certainly be dire. No, the movement's very existence was reliant on this staying secret. With that knowledge planted firmly in his mind, he reached up and grabbed the pad, opening a draw on his desk that he then dumped it into, slamming it shut not long afterwards.

Wiping his face, he chose to smile, looking back up at Krato and Tikhas with a sanguine outlook that outshone the negativity surrounding the revelation that had taken place only minutes ago, "Let us not ponder this a second longer than necessary...everything will be fine if we remain committed. Now, I suggest you both head for the hangar. Roman informed me an hour ago that most of the team is ready to depart, and he is simply awaiting your return. You've got a somewhat long journey between here and Rannoch, and we can't afford to waste a day of it."

"Of course, Good Samaritan," Tikhas bowed.

"We'll be sure to return with the Crusader," Krato added.

The Samaritan just nodded, smiling, "You are the best specialists our movement has to offer. What you are doing is nothing short of heroic. Upon you return, you will be treated accordingly. Your actions in three days will guide the course of history. We are on the path to greatness! Be sure not to lose your footing."

Krato's reservations evaporated, and he joined Tikhas in reciting the chant that had now become commonplace amongst all Shepardists, "Glory to the Crusader!"

He nodded in turn, his smile never wavering, despite the heavy burden he knew he was bestowing upon these men, "And glory he shall have. Good luck, gentlemen."

Moments later, the room was empty again, leaving the Samaritan with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. The sheer immensity of the mission he had sent the Exaltation squad to complete simply refused to compute in his head, and he didn't know if that was because he had accepted the possibility of its failure, or if he was far too lost in thoughts of what came next. The future, as they always said, was uncertain. It was a malleable piece of non-continuity that would be shaped to their liking. This, by definition, seemed to eliminate the possibility of destiny, because destiny was defined as an inflexible set date to which an event would and always will happen, and nothing could be done to change that.

And they were right. The Crusader's destiny was to liberate the galaxy from tyranny. That was set in stone. It would happen, no matter what. Even if it wasn't the Samaritan who brought it about, or even if the Shepardists failed to do it, someone else would come along with the same passion, the same drive...and they would make it happen, or die trying. The Reapers had believed they were destiny incarnate: always fated to wipe out all galactic life, and that nothing could change this outcome. But then the Crusader proved them wrong.

Because the only destiny was the Crusader's destiny. And once the galaxy was liberated...well, whatever surplus was left over would go to his disciples. A slice of heaven reserved for them all to feast upon.

Lost in this vision he had for the future, he failed to notice a shadow being cast down over his desk. Someone was within the room...without his permission.

He looked up, angered his thoughts had been derailed by an unapproved visitation, but despite knowing what words he wanted to say, his lips remained proverbially taped shut, eyes widening as he suddenly felt paralyzed once more, his body feeling like it had been super-glued in place as gazed upon the person in his vicinity.

It was the figure from before, but now much closer. The spectre looked as it did before: foul secretions dripped down onto the floor infront of his desk, their half-helmeted, featureless face gazing down at him chillingly and silently, hardly making a sound, if any. The Samaritan stared back into what felt like an abyss of feeling and temperament, and despite not hearing them say a thing, only one word seemed to register with him upon looking at this...phantom of a person.

Fault. N-no... _two_ words. The words are 'your fault'?

Your fault. This thing was blaming him for something...for what? What was this figure and what did they want?

Just when he thought the figure would not move an inch, just as before, there was a twitch of movement. He watched as the figure, unfaltering in its steady, piercing gaze...raised its arm to point at him, the gesture accusatory. But that's not what shook the Samaritan, nor what caused him to flinch back in disgust...it was what was on that arm.

Or, rather, the lack of it.

What remained of this phantom's arm was a horrific, scraggy-looking limb that was barely worthy of the term. Two of the fingers were missing, half of another and the remaining finger and thumb barely had any flesh attached to them, with the skin peeled away to reveal sharp white bone. The hand looked partially melted, and the armor he knew the spectre to be wearing looked thin on this armor because it had literally  _merged_ with it. Whatever heat had caused this injury, it had liquified the skin underneath, resulting in the portion of armor on that arm to twist and buckle, the straps holding it in place now hanging from chunks of cooked muscle and chipped bone ligaments.

It was a gruesome sight, made only worse by what he saw on the remaining finger.

A wedding ring, so badly melted that the metal had dissolved and resolidified around the base of the finger, contorted and warped out of the shape it had initially been forged in, looking less like a ring now and more like a misshapen slab of metal that had simply formed around the finger.

Blood dripped from the man's arm onto the Samaritan's desk, and it clicked instantly. That wasn't some odd form of black liquid that the unnamed figure was soaked in...that was blood.  _His_ blood.

Unveiling like a reward for a puzzle the Samaritan didn't know he was solving, he watched the straps on the figure begin to loosen and snap. One by one, they gave way under stress of some unknown force, and he watched sections of armor slip off his body and clatter to the ground. He felt nauseous as the grisly sight before him unravelled like a blanket being rolled out...he watched as the man's intestines, now deliquesced into a pinkish sludge, rolled out of his open gut, the smell so unimaginably stinging and vicious that it threatened to gag him from a single whiff. Despite this, he remained transfixed as it continued, more and more armor falling away, letting diseased organs fall out and revealing a ruined skeletal structure.

Finally, the ghoul's helmet, which he had mistaken for a half helm and which was actually a helmet that had been so badly damaged that the lower portion had been sundered away, leaving nothing but the upper portion to rest on his head like a WWII helmet without its straps, visor shattered and open to the elements. This now fell away with the rest, and the Samaritan could hardly breathe as he beheld the grotesque eldritch underneath.

It was a human face...mostly. The eyes, the hair, the teeth, the eyebrows...they were all missing, but the skin was there, blackened and carbonized to the point where cracks appeared in its carapace. The skin hung to the skull underneath like someone who was malnourished, looking for all intents and purposes like a bare skull with skin attached.

Its lower jaw, limping lamely to one side, moved up and down as the creature spoke with a voice that didn't belong to such a desolate form, "Such a coward, corpy. A little pussy. You couldn't face it like a man, so you ran and hid. What are you doing, corpy? Do you think this is redemption? Do you think your pills will hide you from seeing me? I will fucking haunt you until the day you die, corpy."

"Don't...not..." he tried to form words, but the Samaritan and...whoever he really was...were two different personalities inhabiting the same body, and in this moment, the Samaritan had abandoned him to his own devices, leaving the real man underneath to quiver and shake with terror, which he felt abounding, "...don't know...who you are..."

The skull cackled, leaning over the desk to bring itself closer to him. Their oesophagus fell from their open throat, spilling out onto the wood with a wet splat. As the spectre continued speaking, the dangling tube whistled and squeaked, just as it would when normally someone spoke. The only difference here...was that it wasn't attached to the creature anymore.

"You know me, corpy. We're real close, you and I. Basically related. You keep running, but you can't escape your own mind, corpy. You think you'll find peace here. You won't..."

"I am...the Good Samaritan..." he mumbled, feeling the uncontrollable urge to begin sobbing as the ghoulish figure made its way towards him.

He lashed out, spindly fingers made of sharp, jagged bone clasping around his throat as the skull came to within inches of his own face, the smell of its charred flesh still smoky from when it had melted, "DON'T YOU FUCKING GIVE ME THAT SHIT, CORPY! YOU'RE A FUCKING NOBODY! YOU HEAR ME!?  _NOBODY!_ I know who you really are! You can't lie to yourself, you dirty little coward!"

Terrified out of his wits and finding no way out of the situation, the Samaritan did the only thing he could. He shut his eyes.

The pressure around his neck loosened. The smell of harsh smoke evaporated from the air, replaced by the musty, stale air he had come to expect from the Shepardist sanctuary.

Slowly, he pried his eyes open, and relaxed gently. The ghoul was gone. All signs that it was ever there were nowhere to be found once more.

He allowed himself to exhale a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, and released the vice-like grip he equally hadn't realized he had tightened around his chair's armrests. His knuckles ached from the pressure, skin still bright white from the tension. He rubbed them, standing up as he focused on taking deep breaths.

_It's gone. He was never there, it's just another hallucination. Damn it...they're getting too vivid. I really need to up the dosage of those tablets. They're obviously not as effective as they should be._

Calming down, he gulped and took another long, deep breath before closing his eyes. He'd regret that.

When he opened them again, he found the ghoul was back...this time however, only its decapitated head was present, lying ontop of his desk. Blood blooded across the wood panelling, the wood soaking up the liquid while the rest dripped onto the floor. The skull's jaw flopped up and down, speaking words that he couldn't hear. Despite its position on the table, he knew it was looking at him.

He screamed, lashing out with an arm to bash the skull and send it flying off his desk.

All he could do was watch in disbelief as the skull disappeared, replaced by his personal terminal...which was now the object he had sent flying across the room, smashing into the wall to his left and slamming back down to the ground, its holographic display fizzling out as the projector was crushed between the device itself and the wall. He simply stared at the destroyed terminal, and wondered just how long his sanity was going to last.

 _Whoever you are...whatever you are...I don't know what I've done, but I will make it up to you. I_ _**am** _ _the Good Samaritan, for better or worse, and with that title comes responsibility. Maybe I was a coward...I will never know. Whoever that man was is gone. All that exists now is the Samaritan, and I will right the wrongs I've committed in the past. So haunt me if you must. But make no mistake...I will not be frightened into submission._

_My mission is most sacrosanct. You will not scare me. You cannot._

A whisper answered with no particular origin. The connotations sent chills up his spine, and the tone was pillory, yet lacking in amusement.

 _"_ Then let's dance, corpy. Show me what you got _._ "

* * *

 _1 kilometer out from the Shepard Residence, Rannoch - February 9, 2188 - Nine hours later_.

What a night  _that_  turned out to be.

The group was returning to the house after a three hour-long bachelor party. To say the majority of them were totally wasted would be an understatement.

Shepard's head was swimming, the effect like that of being several feet underwater. His movements were sluggish and resistant, like the pressure in the air was weighing down against every limb on his body and limiting their individual ability to move. His head swayed back and forth, left and right...no matter how much he wanted to right it and keep himself focused, his head simply felt too top-heavy to be relied on stay upright. His eyes were of little use too, finding it difficult to form photorealistic images of the objects in his surroundings, which had the result of leaving everything blurry and constantly zipping in and out of focus.

Thank God he wasn't the one driving.

As skycars were traditionally four to five seater vehicles, it was clear to the entire group that they wouldn't be using a skycar for transport to this bachelor party. So Garrus had suggested the next best thing: before everybody knew it, the  _Normandy_ had deployed, from orbit, its newest toy.

Similar to its military cousin the M35 Mako, the ND1 All-Terrain Terrestrial Exploration Vehicle, otherwise known by its nickname the 'Nomad', was a vehicle that specialized in the terrestrial exploration and offroad deviations that the Mako aspired to achieve, but failed. Without the added weight of its multi-role main turret, and the space used for numerous weapon systems and combat support suites being freed up, the Nomad was able to succeed in the role that the Mako struggled in. The design was much the same, with a six-wheel configuration and a high-powered motor for pumping out large amounts of horsepower and speed. The differences lay in that the Nomad was bulkier than its Mako cousin, and that its six wheels were much beefier, and granted the vehicle more traction. It also possessed twin thrusters at the back in addition to the ventral thrusters on its underside, granting it speed boosts when traversing mountain peaks or other difficult obstacles.

Overall, the Nomad was simply a Mako but with a larger focus on the 'all-terrain' side of things, rather than the 'infantry fighting vehicle' part. It handled like one would expect from a heavier counterpart to an IFV...wasn't great at turns, but its suspension, combined with the horsepower, granted it high amounts of speed, and better grip along difficult terrain. Overall, a less nightmarish vehicle to control, and one the crew was grateful for, as Garrus made a point to remind Shepard of his terrible driving skills every chance he got on the way there.

But, of course, the best feature of the Nomad was that it had been specifically designed to maintain a large passenger contingent, and while designed for human users, the Nomad was capable of carrying up to 25 passengers maximum, with a total weight capacity of 8 tons. More than enough to fit a couple krogan, to be sure.

So with that issue resolved, the men had gotten ready for the bachelor party and taken off towards the city of El'Tivv, while Tali and the women remained behind to enjoy their bachelorette party, which promised to be quite muted and laid back by comparison. The idea for theirs was to have a fun, enjoyable and relaxing time. Pop a few drinks, have a chat and a laugh, and of course celebrate Shepard's last true night of freedom before he would spend the next three preparing to willingly sacrifice it. Sure, Shepard wasn't all too keen on the strippers, but let Garrus and the others have their fun...he'll make his own.

It should have been fine, and in a way it was, but as Shepard sat in the back compartment and groaned with each sway and bump of the vehicle's traversal over Rannoch's less than smooth plain, the Nomad once again filled to the brim with his fellow shipmates and comrades, he began to wonder if the entire night had been a mistake.

The Nomad must have gone over a rock on the right side, because the next moment the vehicle lurched to its side briefly before righting itself, the end result being a miniscule bump that rocked through the interior of the machine. A chorus of groans and complaints sounded the moment following the bump, and Shepard was amongst them. Wrex made no apologies, as expected, simply chuckling to himself.

"Almost there, princesses. Stop your whining."

He simply rolled his eyes, or at the very least  _attempted_ to in his inebriated state, and waved his arm dismissively at the krogan, muttering a response that was something along the lines of 'ohhhhhhh, shut up.' He didn't even wave his arm properly...it was more akin to a spastic flop of the limb rather than an actual, proper wave of it. He simply squinted his eyes and returned to driving the vehicle, simply praying that he didn't accidentally crash into anything. Although knowing his luck, he probably would sooner or later.

As drunk and non-constitute as he may have been, he was far more composed than the others. This wasn't because he had drunk in moderation, or because he was more sensible than the rest. In fact, he had consumed more alcohol than even Jacob and James had, mostly the result of a rather stupid drinking contest. If he had been a normal human being, he'd either be passed out or puking his guts up by now. Nope, in reality it was his cybernetics, once again, that he could thank for that. As dysfunctional and damaged as they were, their ability to filtrate the alcohol entering his system had suffered little to no hiccups, and while he could still get drunk evidently...it was much,  _much_ harder to get flat out pissed.

Within the vehicle's interior, the effects of their escapades were plain for any observer to witness. Wrex and Grunt, being krogan, also had to work incredibly hard to get hammered, with krogan alcohol so strong that it wasn't even consumable by non-krogan...those cocky enough to even risk it would find themselves either dead, or wanting to be dead. Ryncol, burukh, sovak juice, paturh...all of them were seemingly concocted to be as insane and over-the-top as possible, but considering that's what it took to get a krogan drunk, it was of little surprise that their alcohol was made to match their personality. Suffice to say, it was lucky krogan liquor was nowhere to be found on Rannoch, and so the pair of krogan had to resort to weaker levo swill...which did little more than tickle their senses, of course.

As such, Wrex and Grunt looked like they were perfectly sober. Wrex was firmly seated at the controls of the Nomad, while two bottles of some asari liquor were held tightly in Grunt's reptilian hands, which swished and sloshed around inside the glass housing as the two krogan sang some krogan tune. Wrex looked to be chastizing Grunt for messing up some of the lines, while Grunt just grinned and started quipping back. Overall, they were better off than even Shepard was, and he thanked the lack of ryncol for that blessed miracle.

The others were a different story: Zaeed had a traditional cigarette seated firmly between his lips, exorbitant puffs of smoke spewing from the tip in a flagrantly unhealthy display. He seemed to be telling Jacob and Garrus another of his famous war stories, but between having to talk with a cigarette in his mouth and fighting the alcohol in his system, his speech became slurred and nearly incomprehensible. Jacob just had a large, dumb smirk on his face as watched Zaeed talk, his glazed out expression making it seem as if he wasn't even listening to the merc. Garrus was the only paying any attention, gently nursing his own beer as he listened intently to Zaeed's nonsense like it was perfectly coherent. James was asleep, arms crossed over his chest and mumbling in Spanish under his breath. Javik and Joker were locked in a non-sensical debate that was so unreasonable that Shepard couldn't even make out what the original or current conversation was even about. Cortez just sat beside them and listened, looking to be fighting sleep as his eyes drooped up and down.

In the end, it had been Shepard who put an end to their night...a three-hour party that had started out simple enough and almost according to plan. But as always, once they started hitting the bottles, it was all over. Even with all this booze in his body, inducing a dream-like state in his mind that made it pointlessly difficult to keep his straight, or even keeping his eyes from slipping into the tempting embrace of sleep, he could still remember the night with perfect clarity...well, almost perfect. There were gaps here and there, but he could recollect most of it. The important facts were there...and that was enough to paint a picture of how things had gone down...and the perversity that followed.

It had taken them a while to reach the capital city by Nomad, as they didn't have the unobstructed travel that came with flying through the air, making the twenty kilometers between the house and El'Tivv particularly apparent. Still, as they usually did, the ride was instead filled with discussion of what they had been doing for the past year since the end of the war, of which much had apparently gone down. Zaeed was restructuring the Blue Suns, with the Eclipse and Blood Pack having been the hardest hit by the final battle in London, and thus no longer a threat. James had gotten temporary leave from his recent posting on Khar'Shan, where his unit was helping oversee a quarantine zone around the Kepcedah antimatter bombing site. Grunt was making a name for himself on Tuchanka, and had apparently already fathered many children, to which the krogan was happy to boast about. Jacob had a second kid on the way already, and Javik had simply continued his work with Liara, helping the asari write her book on prothean history. The recaps had continued all the way to El'Tivv.

Turns out the establishment Garrus had mentioned really was brand new...as in literally a week old. Attached to the asari franchise known as 'Azure', a company Shepard and his team had encountered on Illium two years ago (although entirely because they had shot their way through them, and not due to them seeking their services), this division of the galaxy-wide company dealt specifically in...well, strippers. They were apparently touring around the galaxy in the aftermath of the war as part of their new campaign strategy to 'help the heroes of the galaxy forget their woes!', or so the slogan went. They had already been to Earth (where they were in high demand, of course), and since then had been to Palaven, Sur'Kesh, Kahje and Dekuuna, and now they were visiting Rannoch. They never stayed for more than two months, especially on dextro worlds. Garrus thought they had hit a bargain with the timing of their visit, even if Shepard was inclined to disagree.

Shepard had made it very clear he had never had any particular interest in asari. Sure, he found them attractive, as would any human male, but that's about it. He was never drawn to them in any specific way other than the physical attraction. Garrus knew this, and was probably saw this as his own way of proving Shepard's convictions by putting it to the test, which also explained his insistence on quarian dancers. The turian's schemes knew no limits. In the end, the turian had been unwilling to budge on the issue, and with the rest of the male crew quickly pitching in support for it, Shepard eventually caved and allowed it. Although he made it absolutely clear he would  _not_ give in.

It was one bet where Shepard was confident he would come out ontop. The odds were in his favor, how could they not be?

Right...so like he said, night went fine. They filed into the establishment, which looked to be a series of portable, prefab containers that were joined together with powerful magnetic clamps, and the crew quickly got around to enjoying themselves. Shepard was of course ambushed immediately by the asari owner, who escorted him to a private room where three or four quarian women were waiting to give him a private dance. While less than enthused about the entire idea, he was polite enough not to take it out on the women who apparently volunteered for the gig, and he simply sat back and pretended to enjoy it. Little did he know of the stuff his crew would be getting up to.

Half an hour later, after the dance was over, Shepard returned to the club to find Zaeed, Grunt and Wrex downing drinks left, right and center, with the bounty hunter comparing their experiences with Wrex, the latter of whom was impressed when he heard Zaeed's story about beating a krogan warlord in single, hand-to-hand combat. James and Jacob were at the bar talking about their own experiences with the Alliance, making a point to down shots every once and a while, most likely as part of a 'this happens, take a shot' sort of game. Javik, Joker and Cortez were enjoying the show near the main stage, although it really looked like only Joker was enjoying it, as the prothean attending had a face that looked less like enjoyment, and more like confusion, and Cortez was just thoroughly uncomfortable, averting his eyes from the scantily clad women shaking their assets at him from the stage. Shepard just chuckled.

Finally, in a far corner of the room, Garrus was sharing a drink with a group of four to six quarians, of which Shepard could only assume were off-duty marines due to their crimson coloured  _realks_. The marines looked completely enamoured with him, no doubt lured in by the turian with tales of his exploits and his adventures as both Archangel and the second in command of the  _Normandy._  Shepard couldn't blame them: such tales seemed mythical, and were far more exciting than whatever detail they were assigned with at current.

Nothing seemed wrong...but little did he know, as he went to join James and Jacob at the bar, just how ridiculous things would get from that point onwards.

Mere minutes after Shepard joined James and Jacob at the bar, James saw fit to challenge Shepard yet again. As if beating his chin-up record wasn't enough, the marine had set himself up for another humiliation as he challenged the two of them to a drinking contest, one he was ill-prepared for. Shepard's unfair advantage became a factor, and before the two of them knew it, James and Jacob were down for the count and Shepard was still seven drinks ahead of them and only half as drunk as they were. He had pointed at them with a goofy laugh, declaring victory with a slurred tone and a bulky snort.

Over at the stage, Javik had gotten drunk again and had, as a result, brushed aside his confusion, giving into the less polite beliefs that stoked his subconscious. He laughed and muttered curses in his native tongue, and once had even stood up, sprung his arms wide and shouted at the strippers on stage, "You are now subjects of the new Prothean Empire! Per the laws of the Emperor, nudity is a crime punishable by death!"

Joker had simply pissed himself laughing, egging the prothean on while Cortez stiffled a laugh and continued to down even more drinks, his discomfort fading away almost completely.

Then, an hour and a half after all of this had started going down, a group of three to four quarian males entered the premises, immediately descending upon the bar for drinks. They went from laughing at some joke they had told each other to dead silent as they eyed the aliens that had made a home in the establishment, eying the three humans at the bar with a plain and visible disgust that not even their masks could hide. They hesitantly attended the bar, but eventually returned to their own devices, with Shepard hoping it would remain that way.

Suffice to say, it didn't. No, apparently these men were of the stupid sort...because a few drinks later, the men stumbled towards the table occupied by Zaeed, Wrex and Grunt...and started harassing the trio. Their conversation started quiet and contained, but gradually got louder and louder, until eventually the content of it were apparent to everyone. The quarians hurled racist slurs at the two krogan, calling them 'giant lizards' and telling them to 'fuck off back to Tuchanka.' Grunt seemed less than pleased, but his aggression was kept in check by Wrex, who simply chuckled at their pathetic attempts to intimidate them.

That was until one of the quarians said they should make a new genophage. Then he found himself flying across the room, biotically tossed like a rag doll.

A table flipped, punches were exchanged, and the three quarians quickly found themselves with broken limbs and cracked masks as Zaeed, Wrex and Grunt stood triumphant over them, nary a drop of their own blood spilled in the entire exchange. The strippers on stage, fearing the fight would get worse and seeing that krogan were involved, sprinted from the stage, with Javik demanding they return or face certain punishment. Minutes later, and Shepard had to explain to three responding quarian peacekeepers why the fight happened and who was the clear aggressor. In the end, in the interest of maintaining public order and peace, they were asked to vacate the premises.

And so now here they were, driving back to the house. One could argue in disgrace. Honestly though...those racist pricks got what was coming to them.

So that was the story of Shepard's bachelor party: 'his last night of true freedom', Garrus gladly dubbed it. It was fun, and he had to admit the ability to simply forget his troubles by having some drinks with friends, but when you put people like them in a strip club, with people who they didn't know, and then get them all drunk...it was just a good thing none of them had weapons, or else somebody people may have actually gotten injured or killed.

Still, he was just glad it was over. He had never been big on the idea of a stag party to begin with, and now that he had suffered the effects of one, he wanted nothing more than to simply sleep. Alcohol had the adverse effect of making him very drowsy, and once he ceased all movement or activity, exhaustion quickly began to move in. He was fighting sleep simply just by sitting here, and if he didn't get home soon...he'd probably collapse on the floor of this vehicle and pass out. And  _that_ was not a dignified picture.

God or whatever other omnipotent being reigned supreme over the universe must have seen fit to accost him with mercy right then and there. Wrex, barely craning his head to even address the passengers of the vehicle he was navigating, yelled out from where he sat, "Homecoming is in sight, princesses! Now if you could all stop moaning like a bunch of pyjaks yanked from the teat, I'll find somewhere to park this thing!"

Shepard cringed, wiping his face in an attempt to save himself of that image. He really did not need  _that_ taking root within his mind. His overactive need to scrutinize everything would mean he'd have it stuck in there for days, unable to get it out. As if he needed anything more to keep him awake at night.

"Try not to-" Garrus began, cutting himself off with what could only be the turian equivalent of a belch, although it sounded more along the lines of a honk, with reduced Jacob into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, "-not to crash, Wrex."

"Don't worry your precious little head, turian," the krogan chieftain disregarded, "I'll see if I can park in the garage. That'll be a challenge."

"Just...out front...will be fine...thanks..." Shepard managed to get out, each utterance causing his head to throb that much more angrily, almost like it was punishing him for the slightest amount of effort he put into doing anything. Standing up and walking was going to be fine, if that was the case.

"Your house, your rules," Wrex responded respectfully. Although something in his tone definitely seemed to ooze disappointment. Maybe his mind was just fucking with him...or it was the alcohol. Or both. Or neither.

_Shit, I can't even think straight. My head hurts so fucking much...would have been a good idea to drink some water, Shepard. Drinking 101...always drink water...fuck, I'm such an idiot..._

Thankfully, the krogan saw fit to mock his passengers and their misfortune no further. The Nomad committed to a hard swerve, the turning circle so abrupt and unexpected that Shepard had to clumsily reach out to grab one of the handrails along the ceiling to steady himself, as the sharp turn threatened to throw him from where he sat. Granted, they were supposed to be all wearing the safety harnesses, but it hadn't really computed in their addled, degenerative mindsets. Good thing they weren't traversing that many mountains, or God forbid fallen from a cliff. The entire vehicle would be filled with dead people...with the exception of Wrex and Grunt. If he hadn't killed dozens of krogan personally already, he might have believed nothing could kill them.

Completing what seemed to be a neverending hairpin turn, the Nomad came to as meteoric a stop as one could expect from an equally headlong manoeuvre, the sound of the vehicle's breaks kicking in resounding throughout. Moments later, the light inside intensified as power was now diverted from propulsion. The infinitesimal increase in lighting was enough to set Shepard's eyes into panic mode. It wasn't quite the flashbang-like effect that one associated with intense hangovers (nope, that episode was for tomorrow), but it was enough to irritate his ocular nerves to the point of needing to squint. The near-choir of gasps and moans that followed his own, more meager one, showed he wasn't alone in that feeling.

The vehicle rocked again, the suspension immediately compensating for the additional weight of both Wrex and Grunt standing up simultaneously, and the krogan laughed as he slapped Shepard on the shoulder, the nearest victim he could do it too, "Thanks everyone for tonight! Haven't enjoyed a party that interesting since the one we held after my Rite of Passage. That was a night to remember!"

"You hardly even looked at the strippers, Wrex...and you're not even drunk," James pointed out, now jostled awake by the incessant rocking of the now-inanimate Nomad.

The chieftain chuckled, giving a non-chalant shrug as he reached for the hatch release to exit, "The strippers were alright, I guess. That fight though...now that was something! I've fought almost every species in this galaxy...quarians, though? Haven't had much of an opportunity. Now I can cross that off my list."

"You have a list of species you've fought?" Joker queried, scoffing, "Actually, you know what, no. I'm not at all surprised by that. Not one bit."

"He's an old man. Of course he's got a list," Grunt snarkily replied, the hatch hissing open as he spoke. His maw split open to reveal a terrifyingly cocky smile, one full of the kind of sadism that Shepard had come to expect from the bloodthirsty, eager-to-prove krogan supersoldier, "Needs a checklist of things to do before he dies."

Wrex just laughed as he stepped out from the vehicle, the crunch of dirt being crushed underneath his feet as he landed outside heard quite clearly and definitively, "You've still got a mouth, Grunt. I'm shocked. I thought all that ass-kissing had made your mouth shrink to the permanent size of an asshole."

He may have heard Grunt's retort as the krogan followed him outside if Shepard had bothered to listen. Right now though he was focused on the currently very painful and heavy task of removing himself from the Nomad and making his way into the house. He managed this with some amount of self-locomotion, resolving himself to the usual 'one-two-one-two' motion of 101 leg movement. He succeeded mostly, extricating himself from the Nomad and dragging his feet along the ground and gritted his teeth, squinting through the headache that harassed his every decision.

Thinking was no longer a primary concern. Doing anything was off the table. He had but one mission: get somewhere comfortable and pass the fuck out. That's all he was capable of at this point. So focused was his mission that he didn't even look back to see if his other crewmates were moving to join him. For all he knew, they had probably all passed out inside the Nomad from the mere thought of having to actually stand up and move around.

He got a step up in his quest, though. Wrex had parked the Nomad practically smack bang outside the front entrance, with the top of the vehicle just towering over the tips of the porch railings. Wrex and Grunt were nowhere to be seen, although from the footprints in the dirt he could see they had avoided entering the house entirely, and had now walked off towards the garage. He must have taken a really long time to muster the courage to start moving, because unless Wrex and Grunt sprinted, there was no way they'd be out of sight by now.

One step, two steps, three steps, four...with a groan that nearly transmorphed into a pathetic whimper, he reached the top of the porch, and finally stood before the front door to his house. Dumbly, he simply stood there and looked at the door knob for a few seconds, failing to immediately seize upon his opportunity to open it. He must have looked rather stupid as he hesitated, but in the end, he finally seized back control over his body and reached for the door knob, fumbling with it for a few, exiguous seconds of stupidly before he finally twisted it open, and pushed his way past into the main hallway.

Now inside, he tried to focus on finding somewhere soft to collapse into, but instead his attention was drawn elsewhere.

Right infront of him, just before the stairs leading up to the second floor, was Urz...the varren was barking in frustration as he dashed back and forth, taking swipes at something with his claws. It wasn't immediately obvious to him what the varren was clawing at in the state he was in, but the glowing orange light that glided through the air to avoid each attack eventually registered in his mind to be Tali's combat drone, Chitika. She must have set the drone to play with varren to keep Urz distracted during her party. The drone made taunting sounds with each of Urz's missing swipes, almost like it was mocking the poor varren...although that might just be his mind playing fucked up tricks on him.

Hearing sound from the living room, he stumbled over to the archway, making it part of the way before having to brace against the arch itself, his world spinning for a quick second before he shook his head and righted it. Willing himself to concentrate, the room came into crystal focus...as did the people and the activities going on within it.

From the looks of it, Tali's bachelorette party was still in full swing...that, or it never truly ended. On the couch, he could see Tali holding a half-empty glass of her favourite turian brandy in her lap, a straw (sorry, 'emergency induction port') seated inside the glass. The quarian's auditory emulator was alight constantly, the quarian's accent-ladden laughter loud and harmonious. By the look of Kasumi, who sat next to the quarian with her hood down with a rather comical looking expression on her face, the thief must have told a really fun joke. Funny enough that Liara, who sat next to Tali on the opposite side of Kasumi, was also lost in cramping fits of giggling, the asari back and forth on the couch constantly.

In the middle of the room, the coffee table had been cleared of all items, with Ashley and Jack crouched on opposite sides of it. Both of their hair down, the marine and convict were locked in a desperate arm wrestle as their two elbows were seated firmly on the table top, their hands locked in a brutal struggle. The effort on their faces were clear for all to see, the strength of both of them leaving no clear sign of who the victor would be. With Ashley's sleeves rolled up, the Marine Corps insignia she had tattooed on her biceps. Lips quivered, eyes narrowed, and few taunts were made as all effort was pumped into their battle. Even Jack, usually mouthy and full of jabs, remained focused...obviously impressed by her opponent enough to give them her full attention.

Beside them, Miranda looked to be refereeing for them...the look of disinterest on her face though made it clear she wasn't invested in it, though. She simply sat on a chair beside them with her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised at the show presented before her.

In the back, EDI and Samara looked to be engaged in a quiet, philosophical discussion...actually, he had no way of knowing the actual contents of what they discussed given how quietly they spoke, but given the mutual viewpoints of both of them and their personalities...it seemed to match what he thought they spoke of. Samara actually looked entirely relaxed in a rare display of letting her guard down. Yet again, with the room full of seasoned warriors and legendary heroes, it wasn't really difficult to feel safe by default.

Samantha and Kelly were chatting near the window with Doctor Chakwas, who was also had a huge smile on her face as she nursed that ice brandy she loved so much. Ken and Gabby were nowhere to be found, although was because, as Garrus told him, Ken had volunteered to stay back on the ship to keep engineering staffed, and Gabby, as a result, had chosen to stay behind with him, not wanting him to feel left out...so they weren't attending, unfortunately.

Finally, Churchill stood at the far back of the room, the geth practically living in social experiment heaven as it observed the festivities going on around her. The geth had wanted to learn what it was like to be an organic woman...and you weren't going to get a better cross-section than Tali's party, so the geth had elected to attend. She silently watched from the back, headflaps occasionally twitching in response to stimuli and head turning to observe crew actions. Otherwise, she remained silent and separate from the party.

Despite initially only coming into the house with the sole goal of finding a worthy sleep location, he found himself occupied by the sight of Tali laughing, her giggling keeping him thoroughly distracted all the way. Despite the ache in his head, that sound was enough to fill him with warmth, one different from the alcohol flowing through his veins. It was so infectious that it actually made him smile, despite the agony felt by his-

The door slammed open, Shepard's smile evaporating instantly as the sound felt like he had slapped with a brick, head pulsing furiously. Meanwhile, Zaeed stomped through like an elephant, cigarette thankfully gone and not filling his home with the smell of tobacco smoke. The mercenary made little sound other than his clamarous entrance, and behind him the rest of the crew followed, equally as loud upon their return.

This, of course, had the effect of gaining the attention of the entire living room. Tali and Liara stopped laughing to address the returning mob, and Ashley was distracted from her arm wrestle to see what was going on. Everyone stopped what they were doing, even Churchill, to see what the commotion was all about.

Tali's tone oozed with amusement as she noted the sight of Shepard leaning in the doorway, holding his aching head, "I assume you stayed out of trouble, John?"

"Huh? Ohhhh..." it dawned on him what she meant long before, but his reduced reaction time made responding to anything annoyingly difficult and slow-going, "yeah...I'm fine...we're fine...definitely...fine all around...how about...you...dear?"

Zaeed didn't give a shit for subtlety however, and laughed so loud that he even saw  _Samara_  cringe from the harsh, mocking trumpet of sound, "Fine? Shit was fucking insane. Wrex, Grunt and I had a goddamn bar fight with some quarian folks who didn't understand the joys of racial fucking diversity! So we showed 'em! With our fucking fists! And Javik...I think he tried to embrace asari eternity or some shit...I don't know what kind of fucking fetishes that prothean has, but I'd say...domination...is one of them! Kinky motherfucker! And then the police arrived, and things got really-"

"Police?" Tali stated with less alarm and more resigned disappointment than he expected. Seeing a lazy nod from Zaeed, she turned to face Shepard, sighing, "Really? You got in trouble with peacekeepers?"

"Don't look at me..." he hiccuped, then groaned as the action, you guessed it, hurt his head, "...I didn't get involved...I was just enjoying a nice drink with James and Jacob here..."

"Sounds like you fuckers got all the fun," Jack complained. Moments later, an intense blue glow lit up the room for a brief moment, then simmered down, the sound of a hand thumping against the coffee table following it shortly after.

Ashley snapped her head around, "Whoa now, I said no biotics! You cheated, Jack!"

Jack just shrugged, "Got bored. Would have gone on forever and you know it, girl scout."

Ashley just shot her a glare before picking up a bottle of beer beside her and taking a huge swig of it.

Shepard, deciding all this unwanted sound was irritating him again, turned to face the stairs, locking onto the blissful thought of the warm, soft pillow and cloud-like mattress waiting for him upstairs as his reward for making it there without collapsing. Determined to get there, he waved a hand at the room, already forgetting them, "I'm going...to bed now...my head...hurts a fuck ton...I think I'm seeing triple...wait, quad-ruple...oh shit..."

He barely got more than a few steps before he semi-passed out, legs giving out and sending him facepalming towards the floor. Only Javik's quick reflexes were enough to stop him hitting the floor entirely, the prothean grabbing him just before full collapse and holding him in place mid-flight.

The entire room burst into laughter, while Tali just facepalmed in embarassment, completely exasperated with her fiance's behaviour. Putting her drink down, the quarian stood up and made her way into the room, eyes locked with Javik, who was unfortunate enough to be the one holding Shepard at the time, "He won't make it upstairs to sleep. I'm going upstairs to grab a pillow and a blanket. He can sleep on the couch on the rear porch. Javik, take him there, I'll be with you in a minute."

Javik didn't like that idea, and being loaded with alcohol didn't help the fatalistic prothean much, "I am the Avatar of Vengeance! I do not have time to...drag the commander to bed! I have a mission to complete, and it is most cruc-"

"Javik," Tali spoke dangerously, grabbing his arm and glaring up at him, "Don't make me ask again. I'm the Avatar of Lead, and if you don't drag my fiance to that couch, I'll get my shotgun and show you why I got that title."

It was a non-existent threat, but the prothean took it with pride anyway, laughing as he hoisted up the near passed Shepard, who was now drifting in and out of consciousness, "Very well...Avatar of...Lead! The stripper subjects of the Empire can wait. I shall conquer them later."

It only took around a minute for Javik to drag Shepard over to the back of the house, and for Tali to run upstairs and grab a pillow from her bed and a spare blanket. They met shortly after, Tali opening the back door and simply pointing to the couch she wanted her fiance to be dumped on. The cool ocean breeze wafted Shepard awake with the sting of brine in his nose, which only caused him to groan slightly as Javik dropped him onto the couch. The prothean took his leave, leaving Tali to deal with her disgruntled partner while he headed back inside, still drunkenly proclaimining impossible goals to himself.

"Lift your head," Shepard heard, the sound a whisper that thankfully soothed his aching head. He did as he was bid, and was glad to find a soft, padded surface slide under his head, which he immediately yielded to, sinking his head into it willingly. A blanket soon followed, shielding him from the slight chill of the breeze. The warmth it granted was immediate, and he turned over as he gave into the peaceful sleep it offered.

Tali just shakes her head, reaching down and running a hand through his hair disapprovingly.

"Goodnight,  _neh'sah_ ," she offered with false sweetness, the sound of her footsteps moving away as he descended into a hastened slumber.

He meant to return the gesture, but all he did was mumble incoherently before he dozed off, practically gone the moment his head hit the pillow.

* * *

 _Sahrabarik system, Omega Nebula - February 11, 2188 - Two days later_.

Quiet reigned supreme in the cabin, and nary a word was sounded. The occupants of the shuttle kept to themselves: thoughts were bottled up, any doubts kept sheltered away from view. Anticipation carried throughout, weaponized able bodies waiting to be activated and put to the test. Eager to prove. Desperate to make their mark.

The Exaltation squad prepared for the inevitable zero hour of their first and greatest task to be put into motion. Quite possibly the most difficult mission any one of them had ever embarked upon.

Krato Drobmachar was one such person. He had already checked, double checked, and triple checked his AT-12 Raider shotgun, going over every single inch of its rugged, but reliable design to find anything he may have missed so that he could occupy his time honing the weapon's reliability to its sharpest extent. It needed to be absolutely perfect. The AT-12 Raider was dubbed the 'SIU's favourite deliverance' for a reason. While incredibly short in range, even for a shotgun, a combatant taking the full force of the pellet spread from such a beast...even medium armor didn't stand a chance, and the pellets would ricochet around inside the victim's body like pinballs, shredding arteries and decimating the body's structural integrity. It was a brutish weapon, a war crime by Citadel standards, but deadly and effective.

A pity he wouldn't be using it this time. His shotgun would remain on the shuttle, as would his pistol and his trusty bag of explosive delights. The bag that carried anything from C7 and C12, to the volatile (and, again,  _highly_  illegal) fixed-point, high spread white phosphorus breaching charges. His collection was quite extensive, and a lot of it had even been stolen from a Blue Suns armoury when he left them. His insurance policy, to be precise. Fitting too: if the explosives expert was to ever be cornered by his former employers, he would go up in a blazing that would make his capture far too costly to bother celebrating. Thankfully, he hadn't seen fit to use that policy yet, but one never knew when that day might come.

_Zaeed Massani probably doesn't even know I existed, but I know I have a surprise waiting for the old bastard if he ever tries anything._

But none of that would play into anything today. He would be a soldier without a weapon, an ordinance wizard without his tools of the trade. No, this mission insisted that inconspicuousness would be key, and giant explosions hardly came across as unostentatious. His task was to blend into a crowd and, if necessary, use his apparent brawn to subdue their target if the need should arise. He wasn't happy with the idea: garish events were not his specialty, and such an exercise in infiltration seemed more befitting of the drell, or even Roman himself. Why a man of his caliber was necessary wasn't made apparent to him. Or perhaps his status as a batarian made him attractive as a possible distraction if shit should hit the fan.

That idea made him growl inwardly, but he dismissed it fairly swiftly. If he was truly being discriminated against for being batarian, then the Samaritan would not have recruited him into such an important role. Not just anyone could have joined the Exaltation squad: you had to be a master of your craft, and a truly devout disciple. Krato filled this criteria, just like the rest of the people he would now be serving with for the first time. He had no real reason to distrust them: they were all in the same basket, eager to serve and prove themselves.

Krato hadn't always been on the path to glory, not quite on this scale. He had always been deeply religious, as all batarians were following their christening between the Four Pillars of the Founders Above. The state imposed the religion of the Founders as a directive for all to follow, having always propped up the Supreme Regent as a pious man above all else...a man who had been chosen by the Founders themselves to rule, and their word was good as the word the Founders by that definition. This made sure that few batarians questioned the Regent, or opposed him. Even when the Hegemony introduced institutionalized slavery, which was considered an abomination under the eyes of the Founders, the Supreme Regent required little justification beyond 'the Founders have seen fit to make exceptions for the continued preservation of their children.' The Regent's word was the holiest of holies. If you questioned it, you were an apostate.

So they kept their mouth shut. And while Krato could wow people with a story of his brave defiance and how he boldy chose to oppose the state, and narrowly escaped execution for it, that would be a lie.

Because Drobmachar was among the worst of the Regent's fanatics. Many good people died thanks to him, and many a slave who had confinded in him had been ratted out to the local  _ececo_ (viceroy) and then publicly executed, along with their entire family, to set an example. The public ate it up:  _ececoi_  loved creating the perception of justice being served. Justice was competence, and competence was rewarded when it came time for the Month of the Regent, and the Regent himself came to personally review the viceroy's governance. If they performed well, they could seek higher office. If they didn't, they were given a warning or demoted. And if they were ever suspected or found guilty of treason...well, the Regent loved the perception of public justice just as much as any viceroy, and the public didn't care who saw the hangman's noose...so long as someone did.

Krato was as guilty as any viceroy when it came to snitching and snivelling at the feet of the Pretender King of Khar'Shan. He had been born in the Ghasvan province on Khar'Shan, which had once been rich, fertile farmland. Ghasvan, at the height of both the Republic and Hegemony's power, had been called the 'beating heart of Khar'Shan' for this very reason, and even ancient batarian history had documented that the famed Khar, for whom the batarian homeworld shared a name with, had built a hutt on the very tip of a plateau overseeing the Ghasvan following the end of his campaigns of conquest, where he had been famously quoted as saying 'I have yet to conquer the whole known world, but what I see here...I do not wish to ruin it. It is a pretty picture. Here, my border will stand.' And so it did. Because Khar retired to that hutt, and was never seen again. And unfortunately, the hutt later disappeared as well, its exact location lost to time and likely never to be found again. Many Hegemony historians, a few of them sure to be revisionists, even saw fit to denote it to mere legend. A tale of mythology exaggerated by men who barely knew the real Khar.

The point was that Ghasvan had been a beautiful place once. But as did all the things the Hegemony touched, it was sucked dry. As heavy industrialization of the planet increased global temperatures and poisoned the soil around their massive toxic factories, farmland grew smaller and smaller. Herds of parasitic  _uner_ became more and more frequent as they were forced to flee their original homelands and migrate further south, into farmland. Eventually, as the Hegemony military was forced to send units to hunt down and exterminate  _uner_ by the hundreds. And eventually, the  _uner_ were hunted to extinction.

By the time Krato was born, Ghasvan was a shell of its former beauty. Plantations were greatly reduced in size, and the soil in many areas was so toxic that it had to be abandoned and fenced off. Some farmers failed to produce enough to keep their farms running and were either forced into military service to pay off their mounting debt, or sold into slavery...often auctioning themselves out. The Drobmachars were lucky though...they had sucked up to the local  _ececo_  just enough for him to grant them some leniency.

Then came the greatest day of Krato's life, at least at the time. He saved his parents' lives.

There had been a slave. A little asari girl taken during a slaver raid. Sold by her captors to the  _ececo_ of Ghasvan, the  _ececo_ had little need for another slave, and gave her to the Drobmachars to do with as they saw fit. Needing someone else to plow the fields, they put her to such work. Krato wasn't allowed to talk to her, his mother always saying 'batarians don't talk with filth.' But Krato didn't pay them much mind: he'd always sneak out into the fields to talk with her regardless. His presence made the girl's life a lot easier to handle. Her misery turned into grudging acceptance, and the child eventually stopped crying for her parents every morning and enjoyed Krato's company, as forbidden as it was. If Krato was ever caught...he'd be punished. Severely.

Of course, he was eventually outed. He came clean, actually, and admitted what he had done. But he was forgiven and saved from any punishment...because in the end, his closeness to the girl had proven to be very fortuitous. You see, the little asari girl, the one who seemed so innocent and shy and scared and wanting her parents...she had changed not because of him, but because of hope.

At some point, when Krato wasn't around, a slave, a would-be rebel later thought to be involved in the brief but bloody Camala uprising a decade before the Reaper War, came to the girl and recruited her into his army. Krato didn't know what he offered the girl to make her toss aside her fear and put her trust in him, but it must have been a lot. A promise to see her parents again? Perhaps. A chance to get back at those who so ruthlessly and carelessly sold her off like cattle? Entirely probable. Whatever the case...she had been recruited. And her mission? To kill the  _ececo_. She was to strap bombs to herself, hidden underneath her clothing, and when she was to next enter the Drobmachar house to have dinner, she would detonate the bomb and kill everyone inside. But not just that...the bomb also had extremely potent chlorine gas fitted within, and the spread was enormous.

The goal? Obvious. The initial blast would kill Krato and his parents, while the chlorine gas would poison and destroy the remaining farm area...destroying a major source of an income for the Hegemony, and deal a devastating blow to her captors. She would become a martyr.

But, of course, the girl had other plans. She told Krato of her plan, and begged him to run. She liked him, saw him as the only friend she had on this planet, and cried as she begged him to flee and find her friend in the resistance. She saw this as a mercy, and said that the rebels wanted the Drobmachars to be used as an example to anyone who thinks of allying with the Hegemony establishment. She made him promise to save himself. He promised.

But the asari was young, and naive. She failed to see just how engrained Hegemony propaganda was. Children were brought up as loyalists of the state. Disloyalty was whipped out of them, and obedience was as natural and easy as breathing. And the reward for giving up unruly slaves...power. Promotion. Job opportunities. He would be able to abandon this shitty plot of farmland and join the army, make a difference for his people.

So he did the lowest, most scummy thing imaginable: he ran not to the rebels, but to his father, and informed him of the little girl's plan. And then ececo was notified. Before the girl knew it, she was tranquilized by a  _Feksogar_  unit and SIU EOD removed the bomb from her body. The girl was taken away, and he never saw her again: knowing the  _Feksogar_ though, that girl was likely subjected to unimaginable torture. She probably gave up her new friends in the end, and those who gave her hope would have been located and wiped out.

And Krato...he felt no remorse. He felt pride in serving his people. The  _Feksogar_ thanked his family for their service, and recommended Krato for public service. A month later, he was conscripted into the Hegemony army. And that was that.

Of course, he'd eventually come to see the light...he wouldn't be here, ready to rescue the Crusader, an enemy of the Hegemony, if he hadn't eventually come along the path of redemption. But it had been a long road...with very few twists and turns. Much of his service to the Hegemony had been in thorough and meticulous devotion to the state, and he had been promoted many times, eventually becoming a lieutenant. When he was specifically chosen by Ka'hairal Balak, the greatest war criminal in batarian history, to be a part of the greatest slaver fleet in history...he hadn't balked from his duty. He had been glad to serve his people and kill some human parasites along the way.

But it was one thing to have fought alongside the Crusader...it was another to have fought him and lived to tell the tale.

Krato had been there on Elysium when the Crusader made his famed last stand. The Lion, his fellow humans called him, and for good reason. He had been boots on the ground with the other ten thousand men Balak had deployed to besiege the planet, and all had gone well initially. The Alliance colonial garrison was overwhelmed and its remnants forced to withdraw, civilians were being cornered at spaceports that they couldn't use because of the slaver fleet's blockade, and little further resistance stood in their way. By all margins, it should have been another success like that at Mindoir. Another of Balak's great victories against the human scourge, and a show of power to the infant Alliance that the Hegemony were not to be trifled with. That their reckoning for the Alliance's aggressive expansion into the Verge was at hand. It would have been a glorious triumph.

If it wasn't for one human. Just one.

The men he fought beside, his brothers-in-arms, were slaughtered just trying to overwhelm one man. Krato had been shot in the arm and left to die, although the Crusader was too busy dealing with the rest of his comrades to notice he was still alive. Krato had tried to continue fighting, but by the time he finally got back up, what few survivors were around to mount an attack were routed when the Alliance colonial guardsmen counterattacked, and trapped between the flaming wrecks of their destroyed armoured support and the piles of their own dead men, a few fought to the death...most threw down their weapons and surrendered. Krato was among the latter.

He never saw the Crusader personally. Not up close, anyway. He caught a glimpse of the man, shouting vulgarities as his chipped and dented helmet shielded his face from view, spinning around on the high-velocity machine gun turret of a partially destroyed human tactical vehicle, two-score of Krato's unit being cut down and sliced to bloody ribbons, cakes and piles of gore and viscera slapping the concrete and blinding even Krato as he was saturated by it.

So what caused him to change? Ironically...the Alliance. It wasn't anything they did to him...they didn't reverse his indoctrination through some advanced technique. All they had to do was prove, by mere existence of their actions, that the Hegemony's propaganda about humans were wrong. The humans weren't monsters who flayed batarian prisoners alive and who decapitated them and used their heads for some barbaric game called 'football'. All of his fellow inmates were fed well, treated well and lived fairly comfortable lives as POWs. Krato lived out the rest of the Blitz from a prison camp on the very planet he tried to help enslave, but it taught him a lesson: he had been wrong all his life. The Hegemony had sold him lies. Everything he had done, believing he was a paragon of virtue, was instrinically vile and evil. The Alliance and humans weren't the monsters they were sold on, and humans weren't the vermin they were compared to.

He was.

When the war came to an end, the POWs captured were given a chance to return to their people. Only two chose to return: Krato and the others refused to return, and then asked for political asylum, knowing the  _Feksogar_ would send agents to silence them eventually. The Alliance's own intelligence was aware of this, which is why the SIA were the ones to grant them the asylum, on the condition they give them something to sweeten the deal.

In other words, they were to give up whatever vital information they had. As proof they weren't just spies. A few were hesitant to betray their country and their people, and were told by the SIA that no asylum would be granted to them, and that they'd have to hope the  _Feksogar_ never found them. Krato and a few others were so disillusioned with the Regent that they willingly gave up what they knew. In exchange, the SIA gave them new lives: new identities, new origins, new homes.

That's right...Krato Drobmachar wasn't his real name. An alias as fake as the Good Samaritan's. His real name was no longer important, and was part of a history he wished to distance himself from. His old life died when he was slaughtered underneath the Crusader's holy thunder, and likely the Hegemony was propping him up as somekind of hero who died in service to his people...not knowing that he had actually sold them out.

Krato then joined the Blue Suns...he was on Earth during the final battle, just like everybody else it seemed. He never saw the Crusader fighting in the streets, but the knowledge of his presence was enough to keep morale high. Krato survived, albeit with one less eye, and in the end, once he heard of the Shepardists and their cause, he saw fit to redeem himself properly. To make up for the crimes he had committed. For selling out that little girl that called him a friend. For snitching out on traitorous elements in the Hegemony command structure simply to advance his own career. For the humans he had planned to help enslave. And, most of all, to be on the right side of history for once.

He was done being the one the Crusader shot at with malice. He wanted to be at his side. Nothing would ever wipe away his sins. The Founders would never forgive him for his complicity in aiding the Supreme Regent's lies and proliferating his own desecrations. For the misery he had willingly helped spread. But he could at least spend the rest of his life doing good.

So that's why he was here. Every member of this Exaltation squad likely had their own justification for being where they were now, but Krato knew exactly what he was and what his purpose here needed to be. He was a monster, an evil piece of shit whose sins never ceased to amaze even himself upon contemplation. But the Founders had seen fit to guide him along a better path, for why else would the Shepardists suddenly appear just as Krato was having an existential crisis? The Founders couldn't forgive him, but they would use him, and that was good enough. He would be their weapon, and if his travels took him to the Supreme Regent himself, he would gladly correct his wrongs by putting a bullet in his head personally.

He was born between the Four Pillars of Strength. He would make himself worthy of them again by removing the taint of the Supreme Regent from it once and for all, never to return.

So while the Good Samaritan's decision to have him and the drell keep knowledge of the Crusader's disease a secret irked him, he would not question it further, or attempt to act on it. The Founders were surely testing him, throwing in moral hurdles to see if he would falter. They were offering him a chance, and he would not spit in their faces by violating it. No, he would keep this secret, even from his teammates. Nobody needed to know, and by the time the Crusader was back to full strength, it would not matter. The Founders had a plan for the Crusader, and if he was to be their agent in this realm, then nothing would be allowed to stand in their way. This...Stoneman's syndrome...it would not get in the way of a holy plan. It would sort itself out in due time.

He looked around the passenger cabin of the H91-type transport they were using to get to Rannoch, analyzing his new comrades in a light he had little opportunity so far to observe them in. It had been just over two days since they departed Sanctum to embark on their rescue mission, and roughly only a day and a half remained before they reached their destination. The vehicle they used was old and dodgy, the creak of the bulkheads and the occasional rattle of the vehicle as one of its thrusters hiccuped were signs that it was not regularly maintained. They had been forced to leave their kodiak (the galactic standard where shuttles were concerned) on Omega due to its Faith-registered IFF, and for the sake of ridding themselves of any potential ways to track them. They had instead left the shuttle in the care of Mankins' people, and had rented an older H91-type shuttle to make the remaining journey.

Discontinued from production centuries ago, and centuries older than that, the H91 was a relic from a time where the quarians were still a powerhouse, the humans were still squabbling over whose God was more real, and the Batarian Republic was in power. They were pieces of trash back then, and they certainly hadn't aged well. They were prone to technical hiccups, were so overengineered that the quarians refused to buy them due to their high maintenance cost, and were infamous for being disasters waiting to happen. Khurdok Chaggu, the ruler of Omega before Aria T'Loak was on anyone's radar, had been forced to stop using them when the one he had arranged to deliver high explosives to Omega (enough to combine into a MOAB-esque detonation) had suddenly suffered catastrophic engine failure and was sent crashing onto a nearby planet, where the explosives detonated...only two kilometers away from a turian military base.

Suffice to say, a H91-type shuttle had come just two kilometers from sparking another major galactic conflict...by accident. It was little wonder nobody used them anymore. Chaggu was just lucky that the turians quickly figured out what was going on, tracked the trajectory of the shuttle's crash landing, and elected to  _not_ shoot it down. And the galaxy was much happier for it.

So yes, he'd much rather to be conspicuous and safe in the demonstrably safe kodiak shuttle they left on Omega than under-the-radar and trapped in this unintentional VBIED.

There were six members of the Exaltation squad, although only five were present for this mission. Rela had been held back by the Good Samaritan on Sanctum to continue spinning up a story around the recent arrest of a former Alliance Major known as Norman Kyle, who Rela had quite ruthlessly and brilliantly managed to frame as the Good Samaritan in order to distract Council authorities and keep them unaware of their plan. From what Krato had read about him, it seemed this poor Kyle stood little chance. He had a history of cultist activity, had encountered the Crusader in the past in a situation that would have left him believably reverent of the man, and a made-up alibi set him up as the perfect fall guy. Krato somewhat pitied the man, as he had little idea that he was being framed by forces he coudn't possibly comprehend, but admired Rela's masterstroke. If there was any doubt she was former naval intelligence now, that was wiped clean. She even had Krato believing Kyle was the Samaritan.

So Rela's absence wasn't so much a result of her not participating, only that she was doing so in her own unique way. With the Council believing they had their guy and the Shepardist movement going dead silent, they'd be none the wiser. No spectres combing every corner of the stars looking for what they believe is no longer there, and with the supposed ring leader in chains and ready to go on trial for a crime they didn't know he was innocent of. The only obstacles they would face on Rannoch once they got there now would be the quarian authorities, whatever additional security existed, and the Crusader himself. Rela had at least lessened the load on them.

Tikhas was sleeping, his arms crossed, leg ontop of the other, his head hung low and only the slightest of breaths being heard living his lips. The drell had chosen wisely to rest up before their mission, but whether that was because of this Kepral's syndrome that drell had or out of a genuine need to get some rest, he couldn't be sure.

Cann was wiping down his sniper rifle with a small, dry cloth, the action seeming careful, coordinated and laced with the slightest hint of affection, the cloth looking like it was gliding over the smooth, chrome surface of the weapon's casing. The weapon he doted such wanton intimacy upon was an amusing irony. It was a geth T-08 DESRS, nicknamed colloquially as the 'Javelin'. Following the geth penchant for highly advanced and directed energy-focused arms, the Javelin was a plasma-based weapon that fired narrow, almost microscopic ionized darts of superheated plasma towards a target. The size of the round was to lessen its profile, making it difficult to determine the source of and even more so to see coming. The rifle had the drawback of being incredibly loud however, and recoil for non-geth was incredibly difficult to master. But its potency was unmatched, and it was known to make a mess of the victim it scored a hit on. Its directed energy properties made short work of kinetic barriers, and tore through the atoms of the victim like a hammer through rock.

The history of the quarian-geth conflicts would be familiar to anyone,  _especially_ batarians. The batarians had started a war with the quarians in the 1400s over the planet of Pragia, which lasted just over four years. The war saw both powers using their strengths to smash each other into submission: quarians using tech and intelligence, and the batarians using their military might. The quarians would lose a few battles, but the victories would mean little to the batarians in the end because either the general in charge of that victory would be assassinated, or the batarians would suffer a defeat that outweighed the benefits of those triumphs. Neither side was gaining any ground until the civil war erupted on Khar'Shan and the Republic was overthrown, with the quarians forcing the new Hegemony that rose in its place to sign a peace treaty after they attempted and failed to continue the war under this new government. The humiliation was felt for centuries, 'the mighty empire that was toppled by the rats from Rannoch': so the Hegemony were the first ones to laugh and spitefully gloat when the quarians were chased from their homeworld by the geth in the late 1800s. They made it a point in their education, in fact. They even went out of their way, despite not being approached anyway, to specifically tell the quarians that the 'Migrant Fleet has no place in batarian space'.

Ultimately though, Krato noted with a tinge of bitter mirth, the quarians still got the last laugh. They have their homeworld back, are in perfect condition to jumpstart a new economy and government in the wake of a devastating war that had knocked out the game's other major players, and now had a powerful army of geth at their side. And what did the Hegemony have by comparison? Nothing.

The geth rifle rested between Cann's legs, the quarian treating it like his own wife: a gentle caress, careful not to damage. He worshipped the angel of death he possessed, and it granted him its benefits in return. Krato had been there as Cann bragged about his hilariously enormous kill count that he had wracked up during the Reaper War, although he couldn't be sure it hadn't been conflated with that of the kill counts of previous engagements he was involved in as well. Whatever the case, 900 kills was still no easy feat, even for most special forces sharpshooters, so Cann had to be an especially rare breed. Krato had no doubt that very rifle was pried from the lifeless hands of some geth he had put out of commission, and that his precision was all that kept his shots true and precise. Krato would keep an eye on this one. Egos rarely kept themselves checked, and Cann had enough arrogance to go around.

Roman and Breen were different animals entirely. The two were rarely seen apart from each other, and seemed like an inseparable duo as far as comraderie went. Breen was especially curious, given the fact he was a vorcha...with intelligence. He spoke fluently, had tech skills that give quarians and salarians a run for their money, and gathering from the heavy package they were carrying in the cargo hold of this shuttle, he was a technical genius. Even more curious was that Roman had raised the vorcha from an infant to a fully grown adult, and if that wasn't impressive enough, his own history, whilst enigmatic, was enough to warrant pause. The Black Jackals, while noone in this shuttle had known they existed until Roman said they did, had a reputation that was matched only by the Crusader it seemed. A special forces unit that went beyond Tier 1...it defined Tier 0. The elite of the elite of the elite. Champions in their own right, deserving of the 'hyper lethal' designation alone. And Roman had been one of them.

Krato was glad to have someone of his dossier leading the team. He was decked in jet black Hyperion-107 special forces armor, which he said had been passed down from his father to him. His helmet was of a Terminus make, known only as the 'death mask' due to it being commonly used amongst special forces operators. The two blue slits for eyes glowed with an insidious intensity that cause anyone's breath to catch when they saw it peering at them through the dark, and aside from that, none of the user's features were exposed beyond that. No glass visor, nothing. The perfect helmet for instilling fear into your enemies.

As it was currently, Breen was tinkering with something on his omni-tool, while Roman sat with his helmet on the bench beside him, stroking his beard as he read over a datapad. Roman was all business, never seeming to crack a smile that wasn't calculated or measured, and never seeming to discuss his personal life. Everything was 'mission this, mission that.' 'Can you do this?' 'I need to know you can do that.' His focus was always on point, and the sharpened point of his tone as he discussed the rules of engagement seemed to paint the picture of someone who had made a career out of doing anything and everything to see a mission completed, short of killing civilians needlessly or deviating from what he deemed to be instrumental to his duty. He had a moral code, although truly to what extent Krato, nor anyone else for that matter, could be sure.

He knew the players. Whether they'd be a good combination was still yet to be seen, but with the assortment of skillsets and personalities mashed together here, it was little wonder why the Samaritan was so confident in sanctioning this operation. How could they fail, with the arrangement they have? A Black Jackal. A hanar-trained infiltrator. A deadly quarian sharpshooter. A quarian ex-spook. A vorcha machinist. And him...an explosives expert with a brutish strength his compatriots lacked.

They couldn't fail. They were the Exaltation squad.

The shuttle rocked again, moaning at the stress. A voice called out from the cockpit, one of the Shepardist pilots.

"Entering the mass relay in twenty seconds!"

"Hold onto your teeth, people," Roman ordered, "This piece of shit's going to struggle."

Krato gripped the sides of the shuttle, heeding the human's warning.

_Founders, bless me with the strength to see this through. I don't know what your plan for me is, but let it see me towards the path of at least making this man see his destiny. Will I kill the Herald? Will I merely help the Crusader rehabilitate? I don't know. But what I do know is that I hope I have a part to play in this, and that it leads to me doing some good, even if it will never cancel out the evil atrocities I've at least been complicit in committing._

"Five...four...three..."

_Pillars, grant me strength. Let me be reborn._

"...two..."

_And cast aside my sins, for I am not the wicked beast I used to be._

"...one!"

 _Glory to the Crusader_.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**Another semi-early chapter? What gives, Red?** _

_**With the end of Chapter 15, we are now at the end of Act I of this story. I know you guys have been complaining about the pace so far, or if you haven't you've probably harbored similar thoughts (don't lie, you know you have). And I completely understand. These chapters have been painful to write not because they're boring to me, but because I'm so excited (in my own, sick little way) to get into the meat of this story. All of this has been build-up. 15 chapters of slow, torturously long build-up. But we're nearly there. One more chapter, as my outline goes, and then shit hits the fan. I won't say how, or exactly what will go down, but believe me...we're going to get conflict. Enough for you to feast on for days.** _

_**I won't make assumptions of whether you'll like it, but I've got some surprises up my sleeves. You better get ready.** _

_**Am I hyping this up a tad too much? Quite possibly. Will I disappoint? You decide, when the time arrives. But I'm pretty confident that what I've got here will keep your appetites for angst and suffering quite satiated.** _

_**With all that said, up next will be the final two snapshots for Flashpoint: 25 and 26. And yes, you heard me right. Seems like forever ago I started Flashpoint...and now it's coming to an end. Flashpoint prompt 25 is something I've been looking forward to writing ever since it was submitted, and 26 is an additional, I guess you could say, 'secret' prompt I've had cooked up for a while that I think will help wrap up Flashpoint quite nicely. Plus, I'm pretty sure it hasn't been done before...but hey! I won't call it original until I'm sure!** _

_**So, you guys have that to look forward to. And then after EQC Chapter 16 is done...oh boy, the content keeps coming. I'm really excited, personally, to write what comes next. I hope you guys are as eager as I am. :)** _

_**Keelah se'lai, you wonderful people! And thanks so much for the support!** _

_**Btw, before you go, I've made a playlist on my YouTube channel for you to go to whenever I suggest music. Its a compilation of all the tracks I've suggested for these chapters, and I'll update it with every new chapter. Here's the link for it, along with this chapter's music suggestions:** _

_**: / / w w w DOT youtube DOT com / watch ? v = beZmjHhME6M &list = PL2ISmT8IIgwxOcEUVF - AW7kEnm2rzZmcl** _

_**Music suggestions:** _

**Crew Arrivals: "Dark Territory" by Junkie XL that appears in the game** _ **Mass Effect 3**_.

 **The Head Condemns: "You Go To My Head" by Jason Graves from the game** _ **Dead Space 2**_.

 **Describing the Bachelor Party: "Soporific Guards" by David Holmes from the film** _ **Ocean's Eleven**_.

 **Krato's Self-Assessment: "Rain" by Caitlin Yeo from the film** _**Danger Close: The Battle of Long Tan.** _


	17. Countdown to Jubilation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tali and Shepard get pre-wedding jitters. Countdowns fall into place.

" _Mankind must work continually to produce individual great human beings - this and nothing else is the task... for the question is this: How can your life, the individual life, retain the highest value, the deepest significance? Only by living for the good of the rarest and most valuable specimens._ " - Freiderich Nietzche.

* * *

 _Shepard Residence, Rannoch - February 10, 2188 - One day earlier_.

His reemergence from deep sleep didn't come painlessly, or even gradually.

By this point in time, Shepard was more than accustomed to being able to wake up on the fly and instantaneously. Even with as little as four hours sleep, he could be counted on to extricate himself from this state of hibernation, no matter how inviting the continued surrender to the dormancy it offered could be, and be prepared to shake off whatever remaining lassitude remained and be ready to drop into a combat zone within minutes, fully awake and alert. Spending entire days awake and on the move, able to hone his control over when his body got to sleep and when it didn't, was an art few mastered due to the enormous mental and physical stress it placed on the human body...which is why he was an N7, and others weren't.

But alcohol was unlike any other liquid in how it affected the body. And Shepard, despite all the technology that was laced through what felt like every single square inch of his body, was not immune to these...effects.

As he began to transition from from his slumber back into reality, he pried his eyes open in an effort to force himself to awaken: a tactic he commonly used in battle against his body's reluctance to return to full functionality. He was swiftly punished in a fleeting instant, harsh, blinding, nearly ghostly light cutting into his optical nerves deeply and inexorably. The pain was so great, even as brief as it was, that he clenched his eyes shut immediately, managing a pathetic groan, barely audible, in response to the unfair assault. His eyes continued to burn for a short period afterwards, and after that abrupt brush with agony, he quickly dashed any hopes for a quick awakening...especially with the dull, pounding headache that was beginning to creep into his skull. The sensation was less than pleasant.

Four more attempts later, and he finally managed the will and the courage to pry his eyes open a fifth time, blinking through the vitiating fulguration. Finally, his efforts were rewarded as the light began to dissipate, the involuntary muscles of his irises adjusting so that his pupils decreased in size to adjust to the light. Second by agonizing second trickled by, but the result was a foregone conclusion: the light weakened its intensity, and he was finally able to see past the raging beam. His headache pounded on, but the remedy for that was going to be far less painful to obtain.

Caught within an exhaustive limbo, he groggily wiped his eyes of the sandman's rheum and forced himself to sit upright on the couch, lips forced apart as he let loose a bellowing, yet muted, yawn. Remnant myopia lurked in his vision, but he ignored it as he smacked his lips, running a hand through his shambolic, dry hair. In this state, he had yet to grasp the nature of his environment, but the light gust that hit him made it immediately clear that he was  _not_  indoors.

It must have been early morning on Rannoch, the mendacious proximity of Tikkun cresting the horizon as it reached its apogee of the southern hemisphere. That same light had been what blinded him so thoroughly, and in his state of recuperation from both the bacchanalian tomfoolery of last night, and his present sleep inertia. His headache, demoted to a secondary role in his mind's priorities, catalogued away like an errant program. The grousing hemicrania pouted, throbbing a little bit more in protest.

His waking ritual began in earnest, arms stretching out, muscles popping in a series of loud pops as each of his disorganized fibers were realigned sarcomere by sarcomere. The end result of this infinitesimal, interbrachial activity was instantaneous relief to the human, and it was followed by more respite, redistributed throughout the rest of his body with more stretches like he was rerouting power through a ship's systems. Rolling his neck, he finally laid back on the couch, scratching his beard non-chalantly, allowing the sun's rays to wash over him, warming him and bringing annihilation to the scant remnants of chill that had found their way into his endothermic body.

If only that heat could be processed as fuel for him to run on, because right now he felt like he was anchored to the sofa, unwilling or entirely unable to will himself to his feet. He remained firmly rooted where he sat, and therefore far away from the liberation a blasting cataract of water splashing against his face, or the toasty revivification of coffee, that would be offered to him. This inner battle all took place in nothing but his mind, his physical appearance displaying no exterior signs that such a struggle had been eventuated. All anyone would see was someone blankly staring out at the raising sun, hardly moving an inch aside from the hand that seemed to have found a new occupation in scratching the scraggly assemblage of stubble around his jawline.

Though discombobulated, his blank composure was contrary to the state of his thoughts: he searched through the wormhole of thoughts that filtered in his brain, forcing the tired muscle to focus and put the puzzle-like engrams back together again. The alcohol still present in his system, while regulated, made this a tiresome process of course, but ultimately only prolonged it. His memory of the previous night was fuzzy, unclear. It didn't account for how he ended up sleeping on a couch at the back of his own house, or the events that proliferated into him being this confused to begin with.

It would be a few more seconds before the blurry artifacts in his mind inspissated to form a coherent picture. He cringed as he rapidly remembered the events of the prior night: the quarian dancers, the bar fight that got them kicked out, the quite-literal headache-inducing drive back to the house, his...less than dignified drunken collapse. Tali practically tucking him in and kissing him goodnight (only thing missing was the kiss), as if his antics weren't embarassing enough...

_Argh. I wasn't even that drunk, and yet I managed to look like a complete idiot. Good work John._

He managed a quick look around to regard the makeshift bed he had inhabited for the night, taking note of the warm, inviting blanket and the rather large pillow. No doubt they had been swiped from the bedroom upstairs, prior to him being deposited here for whatever reason. Perhaps Tali wanted to save him the further embarassment of having Wrex or Grunt carry him up the stairs to bed like a diminutive child. He picked at the blanket in question with a single finger for a solid minute, mind still trying to work its way towards reorganization, eyes hurting from the strain of remaining open against the brain's supposed judgement.

What eventually drew him from his trance was not a particular sound, but rather the lack of it. Bracing his eyes for further exertion, he raised his arm from the blanket he had been picking at to whip out his omni-tool, a few key taps leading to the device bathing him in bright, but hushed orange light. As predicted, his tired visual cortex protested heavily against that, but he managed to squint through it enough to see his chronometer. As he believed, it was only early morning. In fact, he had woken up half an hour earlier than usually permitted by his internal body clock.

Removing the source of optical agony with a key press, he turned away from his now-deactivated omni-tool and peered through the window behind him, cupping his face to better filter his view. What he found was nothing: no evidence to signify movement availed itself, and an inert solitude hung over the house as Rannoch's aurora rose rathely. Nobody had awoken yet, or at least that was the only reason Shepard could find for why such silence persisted.

Twisting back from the window to face out, he found that the same pair of qui'tee that had been visiting their house for a while had now returned, diving into the uncovered pool and splashing around within the sterile water as they groomed themselves. Shepard and Tali had first noticed this ritual a couple of days after returning from the Citadel just over a week ago, but it was entirely possible they had been visiting their house while they were away. He assumed this was because they had a nest close by...and the safety of a pool, bereft of any marine predators who might lurk within, and close by to a pair of queer-but-harmless looking humanoids, might have seemed inviting to them.

Whatever the case, they had little trouble with the tiny creatures seeking refuge here, even if the little critters weren't too trusting. He remembered one day Tali had tried to get close enough to pat one of them...but unlike most avians on Earth, who would simply fly off as soon as you got too close, these birds were lifemates...and this approach was seen as a threat. Suffice it to say, Tali had believed it was best to keep their distance from now on, not wanting to provoke the female to further violence. The quarian hadn't been hurt, but it was clear the wildlife on this planet was going to take some getting used to.

As the two birds minded their own business, Shepard elected to do the same and finally gathered the will to extricate himself from the couch. He certainly wasn't going to loaf around here all day, and a shower, followed by a coffee, sounded  _really_ good right about now. His stomach rumbled in agreement, mouth watering at the prospect of a jolt of caffeine fuel and a blast of hot water to spark the senses back to livelihood. He was used to relying on a shower and coffee, usually in that order, to begin his day, and sometimes he'd even take caffeine capsules if he couldn't afford the time for even a sip of that delicious joe. But it amazed him just how long it was taking him to get to it this morning. Like he said, sleep inertia was just another obstacle soldiers were trained to adapt to and overcome in basic training. So why was he having so much trouble now?

_Shit, maybe Wrex is right. I am growing soft. All this lounging around and doing nothing. It's poisoning my productivity._

He supposed things could be worse. Just another thing to get used to in his new life, although he hoped he could at least keep in shape. If he can't defeat sleep inertia or his troubled right leg, then he might as well make the most of what he has left!

Arching his back for one last stretch, he sighed effusively and rubbed the small of his back, making his way over to the rear door and gently, with as little noise as possible, prying it open, admitting himself into the dwelling.

With the door closed behind him, shutting out the exterior elements, he made his way through the antecedently darkened domicile, its halls now casted with bright light. His footsteps left low pitch creaks as he walked, Shepard maintaining a steady pace despite the headache that refused to leave him be. Just before reaching the stairs that would lead up to his bedroom, where his and Tali's private bathroom was located, and thus the 'shower of heaven' as his brain liked to think of it, he stopped dead in his tracks, halted by an unexpected obstacle.

There, body spread lengthways across the width of the hall itself, was Urz, the varren still dozing away, front legs folded infront of him where his head used them as a pillow. Aside from the rapid expansion and contraction of his belly as he breathed in and out, the alien canine hardly stirred, its sleep left undisturbed by his owner's return from the outside. Smiling down at the creature, he still found himself amazed by the fact that, no matter how many of the beasts he had killed during his many missions, regardless of the amount he had seen that were carnal, bloodlusting animals capable of ripping a human apart with nothing other than its jaw, Urz seemed no more threatening to him than a mouse, and its level of friendly affection only helped to draw more parallels with its native Terran equivalent.

Lifting one foot over the over, he slowly stepped over the varren, bypassing the blockage he presented and continuing towards the stairs, which he was now within reach of. He felt the instinctual urge to shout out 'yes!', almost like he felt such an exclamation would add more propellant to the fire that burned dimly inside of him. He was close...so very, very close. All he had to do was force his tired body to ascend those steps...

...which was apparently an effort in futility, because now his attention was now being drawn to the lounge, where it became axiomatic as to why he had found no sign of activity in the house on his first observation. Drawn to the sight, he pulled away from the stairs, crossing his arms and allowing his tug of a smile to develop into a full grin as he reached the archway, leaning against it with a nanoscopic chuckle.

On the coffee table, where just last night Ashley and Jack had been experiencing one hell of a deadlocked arm wrestle, the miniscule spherical emitters for two drones, Tali's Chitika and Liara's Glyph respectively, sat peacefully and without movement. Their emitters were powered down, only a single, blinking light ontop of the two inactive balls to suggest they even had power running through them. Liara was sprawled across the couch to the left of this table, the asari dozing with nary a sound leaving her cool, dark blue lips. Next to the couch, tucked away in a corner, sat Ash...the marine sitting upright against the wall, her arms crossed and head rolled to her side.

Directly infront of Shepard, lying on the floor lengthways across the archway was Zaeed, the mercenary's own arms also crossed over his chest while his mouth let loose a cacophony of guttural snoring that sounded like he was transmogrifying into a Reaper soldier, the sounds like that of a sickly growl. However, as Shepard looked further along, he found his eyes widening and gritting his teeth to bite down a bark of laughter as he saw Garrus, lying perpendicular on the floor beside the merc, his face unfortunately resting mere inches away from the bounty hunter's dangling feet. The sight was ghastly, and if Shepard was a good friend, he might have alerted the turian to his situation and awoken him...but he was a cruel master, and he found the opportunity to witness the look of horrified realization on the turian's face when he woke up and saw that his tongue, hanging out of his mandibles, was dangerously close to the merc's trotters.

He found the lack of further life in the room odd, but just as he was about to look around the corner to see if the rest of the crew had fallen asleep elsewhere, he found a loud bang originate from outside, echoing through the house. He snapped his around to look through the living room window, wondering for a brief second if they had intruders, but any such worries were dismissed once he saw Wrex's enormous hump emerge, the krogan likely having just awoken. The former soldier had to admit that he was glad Wrex, and ostensibly Grunt, had chosen to fall asleep beyond the confines of the house's interior, Shepard not wanting to even think about the damage two tossing-and-turning krogan could inflict nesciently on their surroundings.

His senses appeared to be coming online one by one, like he was going through a gradual reboot of his encephalon after a hard restart. That was the only explanation he could find for why he had failed to pick up on the appetizing aroma of sizzling meat and eggs being cooked, the sweet crackling like music to his ears. All consideration for the shower he desperately wanted was thrown out the window as the wonderful smell and sound called to him on a palatable level, making his way towards the other side of the house, around the corner and into the kitchen.

He was immediately greeted by the sight of Jacob and James, the former sitting at the bench nursing a glass of milk while the latter stood in the kitchen proper, a towel tossed over one shoulder while he held another pan in the air, shaking it back and forth while using a spatula to flip the food he was cooking. In the corner, he noted the presence of Samara, the justicar seated near the door, a datapad in one hand and totally enraptured in what looked to be a novel. The asari's face told and spoke nothing of her personal opinion of the book, impassive and stoic as always, but she must have been enjoying it. Seeing Shepard in the corner of her vision, she looked up, her expression broken up by a slight, endearing smile, "Good morning, Shepard."

James and Jacob, who were engaged in quiet conversation, not wanting to pre-emptively awaken those who had not yet brough themselves back into the world of the living, were alerted to his arrival, Jacob smiling as he noted the unkempt commander, much in the same state as the rest of them were, "Shepard, have a seat. James is just cooking us some breakfast."

Shepard smiled, moving over to join the soldier on a stool next to him, swiping up the carton of milk that sat on the bench and, in an action that didn't seem apt given his reputation, sculled half the carton in one go. Removing the carton from his lips, he let loose a loud sigh, smacking his lips before licking them clean of the dregs that clung to his mouth. He chuckled at the sight of Jacob's surprised look, raising an eyebrow at him as he placed the carton back in its former place, "I've worked up a bit of a thirst. Say, I do appreciate a nice breakfast, but did you at least ask before you started rummaging around  _my_  fridge in  _my_ kitchen?"

His tone was joking, Jacob catching on and holding up a hand in joking placation, "Hold your horses, Shepard, no theft going on here! Tali gave us permission before she left."

He stopped for a moment, in the process of aiming a question at James when he discerned what Jacob had said, turning to face him with a raised eyebrow, "Where did she go?"

James chuckled, placing the pan back down on the stove, the action reciprocated with a hiss. He grabbed the towel slung over his shoulder, wiping his hands of residual grease, "You forget already that you're getting married,  _loco_? Three more days until the big day: they're already beginning to set up outside. Saw a few surveyors earlier, accompanied by security details. Tali took off with Kasumi, Miranda and EDI to her aunt's place to get ready. Won't be seeing her now until the wedding."

He mentally hit himself for his lack of hindsight, realizing how dumb the question seemed from the moment he uttered it. Confused as he was from waking up so early, he really had temporarily forgotten, or more accurately 'neglected to remember', that the wedding was less than three days away. He had wanted to forego the human wedding tradition regarding the wife-to-be not seeing the husband before the wedding, as he didn't really see the point. The superstitious activity supposed that the husband would find the wife unattractive if he saw her before matrimony, but he knew there wasn't a chance in hell of that happening. Unfortunately, quarian tradition practiced a similar belief, and unlike the human one where they were only prohibited from seeing each other the day before...quarian weddings required three days of separation.

_Oh well. I can survive three days without Tali. We'll be married soon after._

"Shepard's just overwhelmed," Jacob slapped the commander on the back, grinning away. The gold ring that adorned the philanthropic former agent's ring finger on his right hand was a hasty reminder that his friend spoke from experience, "Confusion and denial are some of the first symptoms of pre-marriage. I was caught with a nasty case of the jitters before my wedding to Brynn. Just your mind telling you danger is close."

"Thanks for the pep talk," Shepard sarcastically received, taking another sip of the milk carton and quickly turning to James in an effort to draw the conversation elsewhere, "What about everybody else?"

James slid a plate in front of him, two fried eggs and a cut of prime beef steak resting on the side, with a pile of divine couscous occupying the rest of the plate. He nodded in thanks to the marine, taking a knife and fork and diving into the offering while James gave him the rundown he asked for, "Well, Churchill spent all night patrolling the house: she's still out there, I think. As for everybody else...scattered across the house, still stuck in their  _siestas_. But once they smell my  _abuela_ 's cooking, they'll be here."

If there was one lesson Shepard learnt from the party on the Citadel during the war...it was that James didn't exaggerate about his cooking skills. His first crunch of one of the eggs was like an explosion of flavor in his mouth, his palate aching for its own taste. After chewing contentedly, he gulped it down, already helping himself to a second helping, "James, you need to retire from the marines. I think you've found your calling as a cook."

James was thankful for the praise, chuckling as he took a bite of his own, "Could do with some pepper, but its  _almost_  as good as my  _abuela'_ s."

Speaking of taste, the sound of a coughing fit...no, a  _gagging_  fit filtered into the room, the sound of a flanged voice in distress announcing its presence before its physical appearance. Jacob and James frowned in confusion, with Samara warranting the phenomenon a cursory glance. Shepard just smirked, stiffling a childish laugh, already knowing the reason for the aberration.

Moments later, Garrus burst into the room, dashing past Shepard in a flash, all while making the same retching motions being repeated in excess as the turian egressed into the kitchen, immediately summoning a burst of water from the tap. James was nearly barrelled out of the way in Garrus' haste, but the turian seemed not to care, lost in his own concerns. Leaning towards the tap, still coughing and spluttering, he poked out his cobalt tongue, letting the water run over it like an ablutionary fountain. Finally, after a moment of distress, he pulled back, tongue retracting back into his mouth, eyes snapping to eye a figure that now stood in the doorway, glaring with revolted intent.

Zaeed just grunted, looking halfway amused and partly irritated, "Didn't know you liked the taste of my feet, turian."

Everyone in the room, except Samara (who had returned to her readings, ignoring the conversation taking place around her), guffawed in unison, which did little to downplay Garrus' derision, who threw them all a glare before snapping back to Zaeed, who by now was moving to sit beside Jacob, "If I had known I was going to wake up to having one of your  _disgusting_ feet in my mouth Zaeed, I might have told Shepard to find a new best man!"

Further laughter was had at Garrus' expense, although the turian eventually came around after a few seconds and joined the group, finding a seat beside Shepard. The two engaged in brief conversation, Shepard clearing much of his plate in the meantime. During that time, Ashley had joined the group, sidling up close to James and engaging in what Shepard could only describe as flirtation. He had no idea what the nature of  _their_  relationship was, but if the looks Ash and James shared with each other were any indication, they were less than platonic. He smiled at the thought. The  _Normandy_ brought people together in many ways, some far less conventional than others.

He had been about to take another bite of his steak when the entire group, harmoniously, turned to look outside, a new sound joining the animated discussions taking place. But this sound was not a voice, and it was not coming from further within the house. It was a loud droning sound, inconsistent and lacking rhythm, and it was eerily familiar to every person in the room. Its familarity was synonymous with experience, and memories of combat drops was present in their minds when they heard that sound.

A shuttle.

Putting his fork down, he stood up from his stool and exited the room, hastily walking to the front door, reaching it in few strides. Stepping outside, he found the shuttle in question just a few meters away from where the Nomad was parked, the remnants of its previously active engines remaining to demonstrate its recent advent. He recognized the shuttle instantly, and the sense of relief felt as he recognized the markings allowed him to lower his guard. He was mildly aware of Wrex and Grunt standing on the porch to his right, and he motioned for them to stay put, slowly making his way down the steps to approach it.

Churchill stood like a security guard, back to the house and pulse rifle wielded between two cybernetic hands, the geth's optics watching the shuttle intently for any sudden movement or hostile action. She hadn't raised her weapon however, so it was a safe bet she knew the shuttle wasn't a threat, and quietly watched it as a precaution. He nodded to the geth as he moved past, and felt a slight pride at watching the geth, for a brief moment, return his nod.

The hatch shot open, seemingly triggered by his occupancy. And with the revelation of who waited behind it, all remaining worry drained from his body like an infection leaving a wound, the soldier doing little more than reflexively snap to attention, an old instinct that he didn't think would wear off for many years yet.

"At ease, Shepard," the occupant more-so requested, rather than ordered, "You don't answer to me anymore, and even if you did, I think we can drop the formalities."

He nodded, relaxing his body posture a little, but not completely. He reached out to shake the man's hand as he arrived before him, escorted by two Alliance marines who stood at attention just behind him, their weapons holstered. He found the man's grip, despite his age, to be as strong as ever, representative of the man's cool and collected exterior, "It's a habit I'm working on. I've gotten so used to saluting you, its almost an afterthought."

"It'll take time, I'm sure," the admiral replied.

"Wasn't expecting you until tomorrow, Admiral Hackett," Shepard greeted, hands coming to clasp behind his back in yet another hard-to-shake-off mannerism of military professionalism, "The wedding isn't for another three days."

Hackett nodded, his face etched like stone as he regarded his former subordinate. One couldn't tell or see it very well from just looking at the admiral's face, but there was a pride and comraderie the old soldier radiated when it came to Shepard, and the mutual respect the two had for each other had forged a permanent bond that, just like the other friendships Shepard had fostered, was almost unbreakable, "I'm glad to be invited to your wedding Shepard, but I'll admit that I have my own reasons for being here early. Matters of military logistics, I'm afraid. I can't discuss it."

"Understandable," Shepard acknowledged.

"Doesn't mean I won't tell you," Hackett added, "Citadel Council wants to maintain the UGC. The alliance you established between all the races is something the Council has been trying to achieve for centuries. They won't admit it, but they hate the idea that some human upstart they found to be a political renegade achieved in a few months what has taken them far longer to attain just a fraction of. Command wants me to get in touch with Han'Gerrel on behalf of the Council and at least make overtures to establish a permanent military alliance. Consider it the galactic reincarnation of NATO. They're even considering electing me to the DoD, principally as the Defense Minister. I'll be the Alliance's primary representative for the UGC's new military committee. Same position as before, just more power this time."

"Can't believe the Council is actually doing something sensible for once," Shepard admitted in surprise. The idea that the Council would want to maintain the UGC as a permanent military alliance seemed implausible, what with their insistence of maintaining an element of the 'prosperous, tranquil status quo', but if they were truly willing to go ahead with it, he could only see it for the good it would do, "And congratulations on becoming Defense Minister. I have no doubt they'll be keeping you busy. Any particular reason the Council is eager to keep the UGC?"

"It surprised all of us, but I can see the reasoning. The Reapers really shook up everything as we know it," Hackett elaborated, "Its not just a matter of the damage they inflicted upon our economy and the galaxy at large, but what they represented. The galaxy stood united against the most powerful foe we've ever faced, but the Council is worried we've been far too focused on internal struggles, and have failed to acknowledge that intergalactic threats a problem we have no solution for. A united galaxy is almost a necessity if we wish to combat further extragalactic threats like the Reapers. And, in a worst case scenario, should we come across a foe worse than the Reapers...we need to be standing together, not squabbling."

"Makes sense. I'd like to say 'its about damn time', but I guess that'd fall on deaf ears," Shepard jokingly quipped, nodding at the admiral. Inside though, he had to admit that if such threats did exist...they'd have to hope they didn't choose now to attack. The Milky Way would take years, possibly decades, to completely recover from the Reaper War. If a threat came before then, and one worse than the Reapers as was feared, then they would be screwed.

Hackett nodded with agreement, but eventually shook his head as he looked up at the house, no doubt finding Shepard's crew standing by and watching the exchange. He turned back to Shepard, eyes locking with his, "I'd better get going. I just wanted to stop by before the wedding. Han'Gerrel and most of the getho-quarian military brass will be waiting to hear my proposal, so I shouldn't keep them waiting."

"It's good to see you again, Hackett," Shepard shook his hand once more, finding nothing but respect for the admiral. He had been one of the few in the Alliance's military hierarchy, along with Anderson, to actually believe this threats about the Reapers from the onset, and as such he considered him a long time ally...and now a friend.

"You too, Shepard. Retirement suits you well," Hackett admitted bluntly. That stumped Shepard, who could only nod and watch as the admiral returned to his shuttle, both of his guards quick on his heels. He remained to watch the shuttle take off before he made his way back to the house, albeit more slowly and pondering Hackett's parting words more astutely than was necessary. They struck a cord within him, and he found they resonated more significantly with him than he was willing to admit.

If even Admiral Hackett believed he was capable of surviving retirement, perhaps Shepard had little to no reason of his own to harbor any further doubts on the topic. Something to consider, at the very least.

Reaching the front door, he found Wrex and Grunt were absent, with Churchill missing as well. Figuring they had gone inside, he opened the door and stepped inside, initially making his way to the kitchen when he not only noted it was empty, but that the sounds of conversation were now coming from the lounge.

Diverting his course over there, he found the entire crew was now up and awake, feasting happily on James' well-prepared meals. Jack sat in the middle, shuffling a pair of cards ontop of the coffee table, which almost the entire room was huddled around. The convict's eyes found the ex-soldier in that instant, her plump lips parted into a wicked smirk, "Hey, there you are, boy scout! Was about to play a game of skyllian five poker with these losers, but Zaeed keeps telling me you can play a mean hand. Up for a game?"

His only response was to grin, making his way over to where the biotic sat, raising one eyebrow at her roguishly, "Only if you're ready to join the losers."

Jack just guffawed, slapping her thigh, "Let's get this cocky asshole a seat! This should be interesting!"

* * *

 _Tassrah system, The Phoenix Massing- February 12, 2188 - Present day_.

The shuttle was in pain. At least, that was the only way to describe and justify what had become nearly twenty-four hours of unabated, turbulent space travel. Its bulkheads shook and groaned like an elder with crippling inflammation in their joints, the arthritic symptoms causing even the most basic in motor functions to be reduced to tremors. Such was the shuttle's inability to cover even a dozen kilometers worth of space, let alone survive a trip of several light years.

Cann'Tulun was entirely accustomed to this fact of life, however. Shuttles on the verge of catastrophic malfunction, or at the very least vehicles that were in poor condition and looked like they had been salvaged from a boneyard, were until recently a staple of the Migrant Fleet's fleet of interstellar, FTL-capable vessels. Even some of the Flotilla's many capital ships were comprised of discarded, unwanted hulks of obsolete steel and other polymetallic alloys. Everything from decommissioned Republic era batarian battlecruisers, to some of the first elcor deep-space vessels to ever be designed. The quarians took whatever they could, and every resource, no matter how worthless to someone else, became something of empirical value.

This shuttle was no different, Cann noted. In the brief glances of the hull he had been able to witness prior to boarding the floating trash heap, he had easily identified it as a H91-type shuttle. The ease in which its discernment came to him derived from the simple fact that H91s had been a common sight in the Flotilla's complement. The astronomically low price with which the craft was awarded made it a salivating sight for the cheapskate quarian mindset, and its less than stellar reputation just meant that many, if not most, were willing to part with them with little argument or bartering involved. Cann himself had been deployed on strike missions routinely in H91s just like this one, albeit accompanied with the magic touch the quarian engineers blessed upon it, improving its performance from 'entirely garbage' to 'barely tolerable.' It was a worthy distinction, at least in a marine's eyes.

But even his own people saw fit to begin replacing them with kodiak shuttles eventually, noting the high morality rate and risk of injury that was involved in piloting the clumsy aircraft. And Cann and any fellow marine of his would atest to their elated joy at their final decommissioning. Cann had felt safer trapped behind enemy lines, fighting toe-to-toe with geth...keelah, even being surrounded by the machines on all sides, with no chance of escape or possiblity for survival...then he ever did on these pieces of  _bosh'tet_  dung.

Cann had reason to hate the H91 far more than anybody else in this cabin for this very reason. But it was also a double-edged sword...his experience with these aircraft lessened the surprise and despair he felt at being seated in one of them, and he fell into old habits as a way of coping with the terrifying convulsions that intermittently shook the vehicle, like a cage being shook to observe the reactions of the occupants inside. If this was the ancestor's way of testing his sangfroid, by bringing him to the edges of his patience, they would not break him. He had survived shuttle rides on H91s a dozen times. This would be no different, even if the small reassurance of quarian engineering being applied to the vehicle was far removed in this respect.

He spent his time lost in lamentation, retracing the steps that led to him being here. All the while, his trusty Type-08 Javelin rifle, sleek and thoroughly polished enough to radiate a ashen-ultramarine sheen that seemed to deflect light in a glittering array, rested between his legs, his work on its careful maintenance completed. The weapon had seen him through many battles, and had taken many lives. He remembered when he first retrieved it, during a combat mission to Haestrom that had resulted in his entire unit being wiped out except for himself, Kal'Reegar and...

His grip tightened on the rifle, the metal creaking ever so slightly from the strain. He stared intently into its mirror-like veneer, watching the warped expression of his own mask being reflected back at him. He could see his eyes squinted, but what he could not see, but definitely feel, was the anger that threatened to provoke him to violent rage, tendrils of rufescent fury sparking terrible memories of lives lost and a worthless life saved. Bitterness, hatred and resentment made his heart beat a touch faster than it should, the pulse feeling like it was ready to leap from his chest.

Tali'Zorah vas Normandy. It was a name that evoked feelings of pride, accomplishment, effusiveness, even obsessive adulation, in most quarians. She was a hero, a guide, the woman who led them through the Second Morning War and helped forge a pact that would change quarian society forever. She was also the quarian who put her species back on the political map, restored them to relevance in social circles. To many, to hear them speak of it, Tali'Zorah single-handedly turned the beggar-and-thieves stereotype on its head, before stomping it into the muck and leaving it an unrecognizable mess, demoted eternally to abyssal myth. She was an icon. A symbol.

Not to Cann. She was a fraud. Daddy's little girl. The woman who deserved nothing, yet accumulated it all. She was a parasite that fed off the achievements of others, and her heroine status was as undeserved, as it was laughable. She was a liar. A con-woman. Tali'Zorah was a woman who he despised to the core, and the more his thoughts lingered on her, the deeper into this pit of disdain he fell. To him, she was irredeemable. A vacuous stain on quarian ideals and upstanding moral principles.

Most, if not all, the people in this shuttle had a personal stake of some degree. But for Cann, his hatred ran deeper than their superficial grievances. Tali'Zorah had single-handedly ruined his life. She may not have known it...she probably didn't even care. But this woman...the Herald, as he now knew her to be...was going to pay for everything he had suffered on her behalf. He despised her with a level of passion he was seldom capable of. Most of his own people, including marines, reserved their reviling sentiments for the geth, and had little time to save any for one of their own. But Cann had never despised the geth as much as he did that  _hec's_.

Cann's life prior to that fateful mission on Haestrom hadn't been anything amazing, but what quarian's life was? The life of the average quarian during the Migrant Fleet era was monotony, interspersed with moments of self-reflection. Recreation wasn't common, and when it was, they didn't have the room for the facilities other species got to enjoy. The opulence and magnificence the Citadel races enjoyed with their luxurious hotels wouldn't be found in the cramped, cabinet-like booths that he had once called home. A single bed, a small terminal and a curtain for privacy was all a single quarian on the Fleet could expect: those of a higher station, such as admirals, ship captains, marine commanders and conclave members could expect slightly above average arrangements, and that was it. Nobody truly got special treatment.

So Cann's life as a child wasn't anything special. Like most marines, he elected to participate in the military pilgrimage program: instead of going off on pilgrimage to find something of worth to bring back to the Fleet, as was the usual deal for pilgrims, those wanting a career in the military could instead join the marines or the Heavy Fleet, and spend their pilgrimage in direct service to the Fleet. The Tulun clan were steeped in military tradition of course, their genealogy able to be traced all the way back to their time as a cadet branch of Clan Reegar. Cann's admittance into the program was expected, and entirely voluntary.

Time passed by, and Cann discovered his penchant for the sniper rifle. He had a sharp eye, and would often drop the need for a spotter in favor of utilizing his own senses to get the job done. He dominated all his classes as a sniper, and his trainers loved him, so much so that when the time came for assignment, he was handpicked specifically for the 34th Marine Expeditionary Force...to be chosen to join them was considered an honor among veterans, as they were the go-to force for dangerous, high-risk missions, more often than not being deployed deep into geth space. Cann's career only grew, as did other things.

Fast forward to 2185, and Cann was a lieutenant, the top sniper in his unit, and he had fallen in love with a member of his team. Just thinking of June'Fenn caused a lump to seemingly form in his throat, memories of her becoming less and less pleasant with each passing day the more he pondered her fate. June had been special to Cann, her duty as his spotter allowing the two to become inseparably close, which inevitably resulted in a relationship. Quarian military fraternization protocols weren't as stringent as the turian or human militaries, so such affairs were tolerated, even widely accepted. His parents were proud of him, he was set to pop the question to June once their mission was over, and the only way forward for his carrer was up. He had no foreseeable reason to believe anything would go wrong. Sure, they were going deep into geth space...but they were assured things were fine. That it would just be another routine strike mission, and that they wouldn't be detected. The most he'd have to do is shoot the occasional geth. That was supposed to be it.

But as fate would have it, there was nothing routine about the mission to Haestrom. It all went wrong from the very beginning.

The first mistake was assigning Tali'Zorah as mission leader. He'd had reservations about her appointment to the mission from the start, especially after hearing the scuttlebutt that her then-recent trip to Freedom's Progress had also ended in disaster, with her entire platoon wiped out. That was just on a human colony, against basic combat mechs...Cann didn't like their chances when it came to her being on the mission. He had brought up those same complaints with Kal'Reegar, but he hadn't wanted to hear it. Tali'Zorah was a 'fine woman and a capable leader', and in his eyes, that's all there was to it. Plus, her appointment and orders came down from the very top, so it was out of his hands anyway.

The second mistake came when the geth discovered their ship and ambushed them on Haestrom. Nobody could figure out why, but the prototype stealth system Daro'Xen's scientists had developed to mimick the IES used by the Alliance's  _Normandy_ -class frigates had been penetrated and detected by the geth, so they were set upon by what felt like the entire geth army the moment they made landfall. Reegar was determined to complete their mission however, so their team took defensive positions, ready to defend Tali'Zorah from the attack while she completed her analysis of Haestrom's sun.

Hours went by, and the geth took them down one by one. Cann was forced to watch his friends, his comrades, his brothers-in-arms, be gunned down and picked apart by the relentless, totally unstoppable geth forces. Their positions were pummeled by air strikes, a frigate in orbit blocked their only escape, and the enemy just kept coming in wave after endless wave. Even Cann and June, from where they were situated, eventually found themselves having to switch positions...but as they finally did, a geth dropship swooped down on them, firing a missile at the watch tower they had been occupying...and he had been forced to watch as June disappeared in a tornado of vaporized stone fragments and ionized plasma.

One minute she was there...the next she simply wasn't. No final goodbye. No scream. Just silent implosion. He didn't look for what was left of her body...all he did was wipe her blood from his visor, dumbly pressing on with his former objective to regroup with his squad commander, and whatever was left of their unit. However, what he found at the end of the staircase was a geth sniper, which apparently had rushed up to ambush their position. It was totally unprepared to come face to face with him, and Cann gained the upperhand. Moments later, he crouched beside the motionless corpse of the dead geth, and slowly pried away the Javelin rifle clutched within its grip, claiming it as his own.

The rifle was intricate. Ergonomic in design, and efficient in its purpose and intent. He took many more geth lives with it as he withdrew, and in his delirious state, he had named that rifle June, after his now dead girlfriend. Every marine was married to their rifle, as was expected from the masters of death that they were, and so he remained married to this rifle in absentia of his beloved June, determined to ensure she lived on beyond the grave.

In the end, he found Kal'Reegar by their ship, ready to depart. He explained that Commander Shepard had arrived and cleared out the remaining geth, taking Tali with him, and that the frigate in orbit had been dealt with. Cann returned to the Fleet with him, but he never forgot what he saw on that planet. The destruction, the violence, the massacre...it was unlike anything he had ever experienced. But despite the misery he had encountered, he didn't feel sadness. He didn't mourn June, or the men he had served with. He didn't cry or surrender to melancholy. He didn't seek out the lugubrious, in an effort to find a reason for his lack of feeling. All he felt was numb acceptance, that this was the way of life in their war against the geth. The cost of ultimate victory. What was his loss measured against the intel gained by the admirals?

So he had accepted it. He would have continued to accept it as well, ready and willing to move on from the tragedy that had afflicted him and nearly driven him to despondency. But while the catalyst for his hatred of Tali'Zorah may have found root on that damn planet, it didn't have the conviction or momentum it needed to truly take off. No, he would find that momentum elsewhere. And in the end, he found it at Tali's trial only two months later.

That trial changed everything. It gave him a target, a face to place on the suspect of his vicissitude. His emotional paralysis finally eased as the facts fell into place, and in the following year, clarity took hold over him, followed by immense fury and revengeance the likes of which he had never felt before. June's true murderer now had a face.

Tali'Zorah was a traitor. The pieces were all there. It didn't seem possible at first, so he had dismissed it the moment she was exonerated, but then he heard of the apparent peace deal Tali had been involved in trying to orchestrate with the geth. He remembered how surprising it had initially been to find out one of his own people had been secretly working with the geth, and how much sense it ultimately made when he reflected on past events. No, she wasn't just a traitor...she was a collaborator. How else would the geth have seen through their stealth system on Haestrom, if not for her telling them exactly how to defeat it? And the fact she was accused of bringing active geth parts onto the Fleet? That was no coincidence! And then he discovered the peace deal...and the impossible suddenly became reality.

Tali'Zorah was the one that got his  _neh'sah_  killed. His men, the people he had served with, died because of her sedition. She collaborated with the geth so that she could take credit for eventually establishing peace between their peoples, allowing her to finally be something of worth! And all it took was for her to facilitate the murder of dozens of honest, patriotic men and women...and the woman Cann loved.

She was despicable. Unenviable. An unscrupulous bitch who'd sacrifice her own people for future personal gain. Did her manipulation of the Crusader surprise him? Not at all. He was yet another of her proud achievements: a tool in her employ that she used to further her own agenda, garnering further support from her own people, as well as the continued and undeserved admiration and envy of others. She needed to be toppled. To be stopped.

That's how Cann had ended up here. He knew his own people were a lost cause: they were too caught in the web of lies the Herald had spun, thanking her endlessly for her courage and all that other farcical nonsense she told herself to further justify her unremitting indulgence in the spoils of her exploits. It didn't help that the  _bosh'tet_ had hidden her tracks well, leaving little to no evidence that could implicate her. Only Cann was able to see the obvious truth, and yet he was doomed to keep it quiet. He decided to use the Reaper War as an outlet for his hatred, requesting the most dangerous missions for him to use as cathartic relief from his anguish. Until he joined the FAICRU, he didn't think he'd ever have a chance to bring the bitch down.

But the Crusader provided that very opportunity, glory be upon him. He was the true progenitor of geth and quarian peace, and his exploits ranged far beyond that. Cann wasn't a true believer in the average sense, but he had a surface level understanding of the Crusader that lended to a more rational view on the topic. The man had demonstrated time and time again that he was nothing but a friend to the quarian people, and the Herald had used this to manipulate him and obtain his trust. Cann owed it to him to help the Crusader escape the Herald's clutches.  _That's_  why he was here. In the name of vengeance and justice. The Herald had to be brought to answer for her crimes, against him and the galaxy at large, and the Crusader's ascendance was necessitated by her removal from the equation.

He eyed June again, letting his three-fingered hand glide over the monochrome casing, appreciating its contours and smooth but sharp edge. The geth knew how to design weapons, and this T-08 was no exception. Other geth, Cerberus, Reaper ground units...each had suffered at the end of this barrel, his  _neh'sah_ living on as an instrument in her own revenge. As he turned the weapon over, he could even see her initials, carved into the side of the rifle in their native khelish vernacular, small enough that it would go unnoticed by the perfunctory observer. His way of preserving her memory.

_I do this for you, neh'sah. We didn't get a chance to be together, but the Samaritan has given me a way to make amends for that. Its not what we wanted, but it'll avenge your death. The Ancestors have already condemned Tali'Zorah for her malfeasance. Why else would they guide me to the Crusader, a man who is as much a victim of her corruption as we were?_

He held onto the memory of June's helmet, having never gotten the chance to see her face before she was cruelly taken from him. He remembered her red veil, the golden trim of the flowery shapes adorning her hood, the gentle comfort he found through her yellow-tinted mask...

"Okay everybody, fall in. We're going over the plan one more time."

That image evaporated from his mind in an instant, but he promised to visit it again. He blinked up, looking up to find Roman summoning the group to focus on him. The vorcha, Krato, Tikhas...they all joined their leader in the center of the shuttle, with Roman's eyes now seated on Cann's form. There was something about that blue gaze that evoked a hidden shrewdness, but outwardly extended an aura of uncompromising exigency. He certainly moved Cann somewhat, the quarian removing the rifle between his legs and placing it to the side, before moving over to join the group gathered at the middle. Still his eyes remained fixed on Roman, the human commanding a level of authoritative acknowledgement that few possessed the ability to exude. In many ways, he was like the Crusader.

_Small wonder why he was chosen to be Exaltation's squad leader._

With Krato flanking Cann on his right, and Tikhas quietly casting a shadow over him on his left, Roman leaned down, opening his omni-tool and displaying a rough holographic overview of their plan to rescue the Crusader. Operation Witch Hunter. Cann, not to mention every member of this squad, had seen it a dozen times over...but Roman insisted on these constant reminders, almost as if he lacked confidence in his team's ability to memorize every physical aspect of its design, terrified of operational hiccups. Cann would have figured that, with every person in this shuttle having military experience of some description, such precautions would be necessary...but if Roman shared these reservations, he did not show it. Cann oft assumed they were designed to intentionally aggravate them all, to probe for the weak link of the unit. Cann was determined to not be that weak link, so he kept his mouth shut, and any sarcastic quips he may have had to himself.

He'd admit to letting his vanity out of check every once and a while, but never on something this important. This crucial to his own vengeance and that of the Crusader's. So the only thing that remained open were his eyes and ears.

Roman was quick and to the point, never choosing to waste time with frivolous detail, "We arrive tomorrow, so let's make this quick and blunt. We land the shuttle on the outskirts of the wedding, keeping at least a good kilometer away from the area to make sure we don't alert security, and to ensure we're not spotted immediately or draw unwanted attention."

He turned to his vorcha companion, who was attentive and his focus like that of a  _qui'tee_ , "Breen, you'll take that 'Grasshopper' vehicle of yours we have in the cargo hold and take the long way around to the back of the Crusader's home and wait there. The wedding is set up at the front of the house, so nobody should be around to bother you."

His attention now turned to Cann himself, who raised his head ever so slightly to indicate he was taking the meeting seriously, "Cann, you'll remain back to provide overwatch with your rifle. Find a good position with clear sight lines to the wedding. If things go wrong, or we require an exfil-under-fire, I'll need you to give us covering fire. You also know the frequency the quarian military uses to encrypt their communications. You'll hack into them and monitor what they're doing, and alert us if we've been compromised."

He nodded, muttering a simple "understood" in passing. But Roman had already moved on, pointing to both Tikhas and Krato, "Our job will be the most difficult. We'll be going into the party ourselves, mingling with the crowd. Rela managed to forge some VIP invitations for us, and after looking over them, I think they'd even fool the most astute expert on forgeries. So getting in won't be the hard part. My cover will be that of a Blue Falcon, helping with the security arrangements under Admiral Hackett. I have a cover story to account for my late addition into the unit. Tikhas, you're a former acquaintance of Thane Krios. Krios isn't around anymore, so all you need to do is act the part...already being a drell should help, just don't let slip your grievances about the Compact or it could tip them off in any number of ways. Krato, you'll be a former Blue Suns mercenary. The best lie is one shrouded in truth, and as far as we know, Zaeed is entirely unaware of your new loyalties: keep it that way. Your jobs are to keep busy, make small talk and try not to stand out too much."

The human reached behind him, plucking a small container from the left pocket of his jacket, holding it between two fingers in the air, allowing them to read the white label wrapped along the front of the glass tube. Clear transparent fluid floated around inside it, and if it wasn't for the decal that quite boldly stated 'Ketamine HCL', he might have mistaken it for water, "Tikhas, you will engage the Crusader in conversation: keep him busy enough to let Breen get into position. Meanwhile, Krato will do the same with Garrus Vakarian. Breen, while this is occurring you will hack the house's mainframe and crack the security. Once you're done, inform me and I will approach the Crusader and inform him that Vakarian wishes to speak with him in the house about an urgent matter. Krato, I need you to keep Vakarian distracted just long enough for the Crusader to enter the house."

Finally, he pointed the ketamine container at Tikhas, "You will then enter the house. Cann will inform Krato when the time is right to join you. Once Tikhas and Krato are inside, Breen will lock the doors. The next part will be difficult, but you need to incapacitate the Crusader with the ketamine. It's a horse tranquilizer, but thanks to the medical documents Tikhas procured, we know his cybernetics will be resistant to any other form of anesthesia, so this is all we've got. This dosage should be enough to keep him under until he reaches the shuttle, and we've got more in storage to keep him sedated until we get back to Sanctum. You two will then meet up with Breen at the back, load him onto the Grasshopper, and exfiltrate to the shuttle. Once I've received confirmation you've succeeded, I will quietly remove myself from the party. Cann, you will be the last to leave. I won't their communications monitored until the last minute. Then we will put as much distance between ourselves and Rannoch as possible before somebody realizes he's gone."

After a mouthful information like that, it would be understandable if anybody else was left stumped or needing to ask further questions. But they had all heard it so much by this point that they knew their roles like it was a second life. Cann was saddened that Tali would be absent until the wedding itself, robbing him of an opportunity to put her down, but the Samaritan had seemed oddly adamant about leaving her unharmed. For the amount of emphasis he placed on the Herald's threat level, it seemed contradictory to then give orders to preserve her life. Whatever the case may be, it wasn't in Cann's place to question the Samaritan's design, so he had to trust in the plan.

Everybody else agreed. A chorus of nods met Roman's summary of their upcoming mission. The stakes were high. They all knew what was to come, and that failure could mean the end of their movement before it even began. So much rested on their triumph...they couldn't afford to return empty handed. The Crusader needed them to succeed, so they would. By any means necessary, even if it meant a fight to the death.

_And if it comes to that, I'll be sure to take the Herald with me._

"Good," Roman declared, handing the ketamine container over to Tikhas for safekeeping, the man standing up swiftly and in a rush, "Then I suggest we all get some rest. If you've rested already, rest again. I need everybody sharp and their focus crystal clear. I have no use for skittish team members who can't do their jobs, and this may just be your most important test of will yet. Make it count."

He returned to his seat, deciding to heed Roman's request in earnest. As he sat down, he glanced at June one more time, a small smile accompanying the stare as he thought about what was to come. He felt anticipation, but it wasn't fear. It was excitement.

Everything was coming together. Soon, the Herald would pay. The countdown to jubilation had begun. He was timing it. Savouring each second.

He closed his eyes, allowing the image of June's mask to occupy his thoughts, lulling him into a comforting nap.

* * *

 _Admiral Raan's cubicle, Rannoch - February 13, 2188 - The next day_.

Her eyes closed, Tali had what felt like an eternity to think about what was about to happen. The day she had envisioned in her future for years, ever since she went on her pilgrimage and began considering where her life would lead her...undeterred even after she was roped into seemingly hopeless romantic feelings for Shepard. Feelings he later returned. The day she had tried to predict in numerous ways over and over again, but had never fully been able to quantify in any meaningful way. She didn't know when or how or who with...all she had known was that it would happen, as it did with almost all quarians eventually. But now it was actually happening. Today, Tali would be married.

Nervousness. Terror. Anticipation. Hype. Joy. More terror. Trepidation abounding. She was a mess of emotions, unable to keep her analytical mind satisfied as they got lost in a interminable, superfluous loop of trying to find the appropriate emotion to prioritize in what was to become the most important day of her life. February 13, 2188. She would mark this day down on her mental calender, commit it to memory. Just the mere contemplation of it gave her the jitters, the feeling like static electricity racing up her spine, zapping her in microscopic tingles that left her feeling warm, and contented.

Tali felt like she wanted to explode. The quarian began to bounce on her toes, a nervous little defense mechanism she adopted whenever she got this nervous. Fidgeting seemed like the best way to distract her fraying nerves, giving them an outlet to release their load. Dopamine flooded her veins like a drug, and she could feel her heart beat so much more clearly now, the organ thumping wildly and offbeat. Its intensity was so great that it seemed to boom in her ear canal as well, and just behind her eyes. Breathing became more difficult as time went on, the action laborious and reminiscent of a breathing exercise all on its own. She tried to focus her thoughts on John, imagining what he would like as she approached him on that podium. Wearing his black tuxedo and gazing at her with that adoring, exhilarated look. She melted underneath its stare, drawn to him like a moth to a light. He found her beautiful, and she would blush as Shala began the-

_Keelah, I really am distracted. Focus, Tali. He loves you, you love him, so there's nothing to be worried about!_

Such consolations did little to displace the uncertainty in her heart, which only continued to build the longer her eyes were closed, devoid of any visual stimuli from which to form distractions to her addled complex. If she concentrated hard enough, pushed aside the incredibly loud voices of doubt and worry that plagued her, she could hear footsteps to her side, stopping just short of where she stood. She considered peeking, to pry open an eyelid and dare a look, but no matter how self-conscious she might have been, she made a promise. Her eyes remained closed.

A voice spoke, soft and understanding, familiar and quiet, "You can open your eyes now, Tali."

She was glad for the command, her body wracking her brain for an excuse to break her promise. But now she had been released from her minor oath, and the nerve-wracked quarian was eager to pry open her eyes, hardly hesitating as she did.

The effect was like a light switch. Light and other stimuli were returned to her the moment she parted from the darkness, quietly reminding her that she had been living at her Auntie Raan's cubicle for the past three days, getting ready for the wedding. She remembered the cramped living conditions within the quarters, and how much they differed from the wood panelled, homey feel and aroma of her own, much larger home. She felt a pang of guilt each and every single time upon the comparison of living conditions, but each and every single time she was saved by that part of her that knew she had earned it, that she had fought hard to be where she was. A slice of selfishness; a personal, guilty indulgence John had also fought hard to convince her to grasp onto. It worked.

The pounding of her heart beat and the disorientation in her mind faded away the moment she locked eyes with her mirror counterpart just a meter before her. Her breath caught in her throat, threatening to leave her breathless, but she released it in a steady exhale as she raised a small hand to her vocalizer, a human gesture she had picked up that seemed to be used in situations of complete breathtaking awe such as these.

The quarian before her seemed entirely unrecognizable from the Tali'Zorah she had come to understand. Although quarian weddings had a lot of differences to human matrimonies, the overall procedures were the same, which included an elaborate dressing process for the groom and bride. Before the fall of the Republic, the two bonding quarians would be draped in a more elaborate version of their traditional  _realk_ , albeit with the clan pattern of their spouse. This was to signify their joining in both love and clan, and was considered a blessing from the ancestors approving of the interclan bonding. This tradition continued in the Migrant Fleet, but the initial problem with carrying this over for her wedding was that Shepard lacked any clan markings for her to wear.

So, they had discussed it for many days. In the end, they had decided: they would appeal to the Conclave Clan Registry Commission to have 'Clan Shepard' officially recognized, with all the traditional rights and obligations any other clan would have. This meant they would need their own special realk, containing markings of their own choice. It had taken many nights to think about it, as it wasn't as simple a task as it may have seemed, but in the end, the markings they went with seemed obvious to them, and were a natural extension of who they were as a couple...and as a clan.

The end result could be seen before her: a long  _realk_ , much like the  _jehni_ her ancestors used to wear, that resembled a dress-like extension that draped over the front and back of her suit. It kept the deep, eye-catching colors of purple that represented her skills as an engineer, but the swirls that represented Clan Zorah...weren't entirely gone. They remained, now integrated within the crystalline-esque maze of a sequence of squares, all of them interconnected throughout the  _realk_. They chose this design because the square represented community, integrity and direction...while the swirl symbolizes positive growth through personal journey and changing of life. Tali was attached to her Zorah heritage, so they had reached a compromise: one that made sense for their clan markings, and for themselves.

Together, the swirl and the square symbolized their view for their future: one that was communal, ever growing, and delving into the unknown. Their clan would be defined by these values, and as she looked upon this new  _realk_ of hers, feeling the soft fabric between gloved fingers, she saw the manifestation of what her new family wished to represent. It sparked more than a little pride in her. It was enough to shove some of her nervousness aside, and was a reminder to the quarian that she probably wasn't the only one who felt this way right now. He wasn't here with her, but if she closed her eyes, she could almost sense Shepard's own uncertainty twenty kilometers away, she did a lot to calm herself.

_He's just as nervy as you are, Tali. Now's the time for excitement. It's happening! It's_ _**really** _ _happening! Just a few more hours...and then it'll be over. Everything we could have hoped for will be within our grasp! Ancestors, grant me the strength to not puke inside my helmet when I walk onto stage...keelah, I'm still so nervous! I can hardly think!_

There were other elements to her suit that had been attached or removed in the spirit of the festive event. Her boot knife, which was usually sheathed around her ankle, was removed, along with other ancillary items such as additional pouches and belts. What remained from this hodgepodge reconfiguration of her suit was largely just the black undersuit, and her original  _realk_ , howbeit much longer and more lavish. The quarian she saw in the mirror looked like someone else, apart from her...so alien was the suit. But as she looked at it, scrutinized its every finite detail, and considered its ultimate use and function...she grew to realize that she liked it. It was lovely. Beautiful.

"You look lovely, Tali," came the comforting voice of her Auntie Raan, who stood just behind her niece, hands clasped behind her back and appraising the younger quarian's appearance. Beside Raan, Tali could see Miranda nod in agreement, muttering no further word other than that, but the tiny smile on her face enough to give away her own approval, "You remind me so much of your mother, and how she looked the day she bonded to Rael."

She smiled wistfully at the comment, unable to discard the unavoidably heart-rending knowledge that neither of her parents were alive to witness this momentous and important event in their daughter's life. She knew the same could be said for Shepard, their uniquely lonely dispositions yet another element that made their union all the more beneficial and important to them. She took a modicum of solace from that fact, once again thanking the ancestors for their compassion in allowing her to survive to this moment. For bringing Shepard back to her.

_After everything I've lost, I still have him. That's all that matters._

"How do you feel, Tali?" Kasumi asked, the thief stepping into her view with arms crossed and a genuine glint to her eyes. There was no mischief or deception to be found in her posture or in her eyes whatsoever. She spoke with sincerity, happiness for her friend unrestricted and made fully visible to the quarian, "Think you're ready?"

It took her a further moment of composure, Tali turning one last time to look at herself in the mirror. None of the quarian that had met Shepard in that alleyway over four years ago remained. She wasn't a frightened little girl, injured and alone, desperately running from people who wanted her dead. She wasn't full of wide-eyed wonder, eager to explore and entirely guileless. She was a woman grown now, and even her suit left no trace of her former self except for the heliotrope veil that was as much a part of her as her own arms and legs. She had fought in countless battles, become an admiral, and fallen in love with her human captain. Now she was about to be bonded, anchoring herself to a new life. It was daunting, but it was much a testament to her newfound character as any of her other accomplishments. She liked to think her mother and father were proud of her. That they'd be satisfied with everything their daughter had effectuated.

When she looked in the mirror, she wasn't seeing herself. That quarian in the mirror wasn't her. She was Tali'Shepard pav Rannoch. The quarian that stood before the mirror was Tali'Zorah vas Normandy. But that mirrored approximate of herself was what the future awaited her, if she was brave enough to take that giant leap. Shepard was very likely to be going through the same thoughts before his own mirror...staring at a man who's prescience was an indicator of what he needed to do.

Let the past go, and step forward unto the future.

She exhaled, letting her hands arrive at her waist. They joined together, three fingers intertwined, but they did not twist or dance as they usually did when she was unsure and fidgety. They remained still, calm and collected, representative of the demeanour she wished to exert.

She turned to Kasumi, positively beaming behind her mask. Her smile felt so full that she wouldn't have been surprised if it exuded light, "Kasumi, it's beautiful. And yes...I think I'm ready. I've been ready for a while, but I think all it took was a good look in the mirror to guide my heart in the right direction."

" _Keelah re'lai_ ," Shala declared, stepping up and placing a single hand on Tali's shoulder, turning the younger quarian to face her, "You truly are ready to be bonded."

"The wedding will be starting in just under an hour," Miranda declared, her tone suggesting punctuality, "It would be a good idea to start moving if we wish to make it."

"I am ready," Tali declared suddenly and with a decisiveness she had not expected. Kasumi, Shala and Miranda all eyed her collectively, none of them particularly surprised by the statement, but nonetheless intrigued by the quarian's change of heart. Before she had been a wreck of conflicting emotions, stumbling over herself as she excitedly rambled about the wedding and all her potential worst fears.

But she was leaving that behind now. As she turned from the mirror, perceiving no further need to return to her contemplation within its strangely illuminating depths, she headed for the exit, finding her mind to be cleansed of any faux-concerns. She had come to the epiphany that she had nothing to fear, nothing to be nervous about, and nothing to be concerned of. Her true fear had been confronting Shepard on that stage and willingly stepping into a new era.

But she had no need to be afraid of that. She was loved, and when the time came, she would be a mother. The future couldn't be brighter. Tomorrow was filled with prospects beyond imagining. No Reapers. No Cerberus. Just Tali, John, and the moment. The bonding.

She stepped out of the cubicle, renewed. No more fear. No more hesitation. No more concern.

All she had left was excitement.

* * *

_Shepard Residence, Rannoch - February 13, 2188 - Meanwhile.._ _._

"Be honest with me, Garrus...am I overthinking this?"

He shifted from side to side, desperately grasping for a better angle from which to analyze his personal appearance...like he somehow expected that to change the outcome of his mind's constant self-scrutiny and criticism. But nothing changed. No matter the angle or how positively he tried to look at it, nothing felt right. There was always some crease he noticed, or some imaginary granule of filth that he was tricked into believing was there, only for him to release it was another trick of the mind...a mocking deception created by the reflection of light in his retina, or a larger part of his own mind's campaign of confusion and paranoia.

He growled, repositioning his tie for what felt like the sixteenth time already. If he was to be candid, he was growing tired of the constant readjustments. Even Garrus' suggestions had run out, the turian leaning against the open cabinet, arms crossed and granting the human an amused stare of acquiesence, which only furthered the feeling of ridiculousness he felt. Here he was fidgeting and mired with vacillation like someone who had ceased to have  _compos mentis_. Nothing he did was right, and every correction drove him closer to anger.

_Why am I angry? I shouldn't be...I should be happy! Tali and I are getting married, pushing forward with our plan. Not a Reaper or Cerberus agent in sight, no last minute orders to doll out, no unexpected or unwanted issues. For once, the galaxy isn't at stake...this should be relaxing. Beautiful. Even poetic, if I should get overly sappy. So why do I feel more anxiety than happiness? Look at me! How many times do I need to straighten a tie before I realize it was fine the first time!_

"Overthinking? Oh no," Garrus replied, a mandible twitching with suppressed mirth that was now finally being vented, "You're practically overloading. Tali's here to marry you, not run a diagnostic because you're malfunctioning."

He gritted his teeth, still not satisfied with his look. He straightened his tux, the black fabric shifting as it was yanked downwards again, only for the matching red tie to shift to the side again. He huffed, throwing his arms up with a loud exhale, "I'm malfunctioning alright! I can't get this damn tie to stay put!"

"The tie is fine," Garrus noted, nodding to him, "It's you."

"If you have something to say, Garrus...believe me, I'm all ears," he resumed trying to straighten his tie, eyes set on the mirrored reflection of him that stood just a meter away, tightening the noose slightly and repositioning it an inch to the left.

Garrus sighed, finally stepping away from the cabinet and, in a motion Shepard didn't expect, grabbing his friend's hands and yanking them away from the tie. He frowned at the turian, but before he could mutter a word, it appeared he already had words of his own, "You've been fumbling around for the past hour and a half trying to get that tie to sit still. It hasn't moved an inch."

"Bullshit, Vakarian. I've been watching it," he rebutted, waving a hand at his reflected counterpart who, true to form, mirrored the action, "Everytime I straighten my tux, I can see the damn thing-"

"It hasn't moved an inch, Shepard," Garrus corrected, stepping away once more, eyes never leaving his friend, "You've been the one moving it. I've never seen someone so fixated with being tidy. You've fiddled around with that tie more than you've actually spent time getting dressed, you know."

He opened his mouth to form a rebuttal, but found he was lacking any. He knew the reason for this was because he didn't actually have one: the turian was absolutely right, and he had been entirely aware of it. When he asked the turian if he had been overthinking things, his question hadn't been intentionall rhetorical: his own actions seemed to run independently from what he wanted, operating on an instinct he wasn't aware existed. There was a frustration, an anger, that had been building inside of him since he ascended to this room to get ready, and he just wasn't sure where it was coming from. Why, on all days, did he choose this moment to feel this way? He wanted to feel happy. By all rights, he should be! Everything was going perfect...the woman he loved was here, his friends were here to celebrate with him, and he had left the world of war and violence that he previously saw no absconsion from. He was in control of his own destiny for once...so why was this tie giving him so much damn trouble?

_Is it really the tie that's troubling me, or is it only a symptom?_

"Don't tell me this is what you humans call 'cold feet'," Garrus propounded, watching his friend's response carefully.

His eyes snapped away from the mirror, turning to the turian swiftly, "Not a chance in hell, Vakarian. I've awaited this day since the war ended. When Tali said yes...I knew it was only a matter of time. I can't think of anything else I've wanted so badly. That I've  _needed_  so strongly."

"Well," Garrus, unwilling to give up until he had tackled the problem at heart (no doubt a characteristic he had carried over from his days as an investigator), paced until he stood infront of the mirror, blocking Shepard's view of himself, "I've known you well enough to know there's something else on your mind. If it's not 'cold feet', then what is it? You've been like this the whole day. Not yesterday, not the day before...just now. What's changed in the last 24 hours?"

"What's changed?" he echoed rhetorically, unwittingly asking for a reclarification of a question that he had no requirement for. He understood the turian's statement perfectly fine. Garrus simply watched and waited, seeing the gears turning in Shepard's head as he pondered the interrogative poised to him.

It wasn't easy to answer. Yes, this frustration he felt...it had only chosen to manifest in him today. So the next question naturally was...why? Why now, what for? Today was a happy one, yet that was second in line to this...other feeling...that welled inside his stomach. It churned and boiled there, tight and uncomfortable, yet it wasn't painful. He wanted to understand it, and in a way, he did it. The frustration was melting away, as it was merely the disguise of the real problem. He wasn't frustrated. This feeling was familiar, and unwelcome. It had plagued him many times in the past, and he had never welcomed it into his repertoire of accepted emotions, mostly becuase of the dangers it had posed to him in his line of work. And now he remembered why.

His hand rose to his tie, straightening it one final time. It was then that he felt the subconscious urge to look at his hand, and as he did, he rose his right hand to grab his wrist, steadying the hand that, until now, he had not noticed was shaky ever so slightly, tingling with sensations of...fear.

He was nervous.

Garrus didn't fail to notice that, moving closer until he could place a hand on his friend's back, a gesture of reassurance, "Shepard, it seems to me this isn't about cold feet or a tie being an inch off the mark. What are you afraid of?"

He shook his head, "Not...afraid, Garrus. Just...you know that old saying? How we fear what we can't understand? I guess that's how I feel right now. I was never any good at this kind of life. Finding a woman, settling down. I pictured my life as constant combat, one mission after the other, a rifle my only constant companion. I've lost squads of men I've grown attached to, but it never weighed me down. I've loved people, but their loss has hardened me against grief. That all changed when I met Tali. And now here I am. I've given up the soldier's life, and I'm about to allow Tali to be a part of the rest. I don't regret where my life has brought me. I really couldn't be happier. But a part of me is also...wary. I've never liked unknowns."

"You didn't know me and Tali either many years ago," Garrus specified with a chuckle, "I was just a C-Sec detective with too much to prove, and Tali was a scared pilgrim who couldn't make heads or tails of what was happening to her. You didn't know us, we didn't know you. Fast forward four years, and now I can't imagine a galaxy where you two aren't my best friends. We've seen a lot, been through more...that experience is what brought us together. It's what drew you two together. We've faced lots of unknowns already. I'd say this unknown has a lot more to offer to you."

He looked at his mirror, finding the look of a man who had changed a lot over the years. From that impressionable, charismatic young boy who had exuberantly picked up a rifle, donned his dress blues and rose to fight for his country and his people, to the experienced man who now stood before him, a thrice-named galactic savior. That was a huge change to go through in just a decade, but it had defined his life.

And so what if the unknown was scary? Waking up to having Tali by his side every morning brought him a peace he had didn't know he yearned for. But now that he had it, he didn't want to let it go. As corny as it was, she was his anchor, his personal savior. Their loyalty to each other transcended the debilitating interspecies boundaries that separated them, and to each other, that was more than enough. It certainly was for Shepard. If Tali was the only woman who could bring him that level of tranquility, why shouldn't he be excited?

Garrus wasn't finished, "I'll be waiting downstairs. When you've finished...getting ready...I'll be downstairs. Just remember Shepard...you two wanted more time. You've got it. If you want my opinion, I don't see any further point in standing here worrying about what comes next, when you've got all the time in the galaxy to worry about that."

_Wanted more time...that we did._

He reached up a hand to the mirror, the memory resurfacing in a flash of synaptic congression.

* * *

 

_The hellscape before them hardly seemed part of any civilization. The sky was dark and cruel, the clouds offering little mercy in the despair and hopelessness that its monochromatic and bleak shadows casted upon the surface below them. Above those clouds, a clash continued. Thousands...no,_ _**hundreds** _ _of thousands of warships danced and collided, weapons fire dotting their hulls as they punished each other with incessant blows, both sides trying to determine the victor by unleashing every weapon in their arsenal. Their tango was erratic, unpredictable...with the conclusion of one sequence, the burning husk of a vessel would join the debris field congregating around it, the souls of its crew condemned to the void of space. If they were unlucky enough, the planet's gravitational forces would pull them into reentry, adding incineration to the brutal death they would have to suffer._

_All of that took place above the clouds, unseen. Down here, their hell was of a different kind. While hundreds of thousands of steel beasts were broken and battered against the sea of unbreakable horror and transgression that was the Reapers, down here the battle was very different. Billions of living men and women from every species assembled for the last great battle of the 22nd century. Artillery pieces, mortars, troops, ground vehicles, ground-attack aircraft and air superiority starfighters...all gathered in the sky and on the ground, ready to push forward with one last assault. Their target...a colossal three-pronged structure that rested in the distance, monolithic arms shielding an even more gargantuan ray of light that snapped up into the sky, piercing the clouds and connecting the surface with the Citadel that awaited in orbit._

_A conduit. A translocation device utilized by the Reapers to transport massive amounts of fallen soldiers and captured victims to the Citadel for conversion into more ground troops for their already innumerable armies. All around that conduit...billions upon billions of the Reaper's greatest hordes, assembled to protect the last bastion of Reaper aggression in the Milky Way. The galactic civilizations, united for the first time in history, would make their stand here. Here, amongst all the rubble of twisted streets, demolished homes and malfunctioning electricity. These former streets of gold, lined with homes and storefronts, had been reduced to a barren no man's land...Reaper soldiers around every corner, death awaiting the lonely soldier who stumbled too far from their unit._

_Not a single civilian could be found, and where once the youthful song of birds could be heard, only gunfire and artillery bombardments filled the air. Cordite and ozone blanketed the AO, harsh and ailing. The screams of air strikes raced overhead, softening up the Reaper defenses in the futile hope it would open a hole in the enemy's flank, expose a weakness that their forces could exploit with minimal casualties. But it was just another false hope they were allowing themselves...a morale boost they needed in order to convince their troops to lay down their lives, to submit themselves for the carnal slaughter...all in the name of saving the galaxy. Trillions of lives depended on victory, no matter how hard fought and how bloody._

_A shuttle arrived from overhead, delivering more troops for the Hammer ground forces. He had been watching them come and go, hearing their communications through his helmet's comm tap. Coordinates for fire missions and air strikes, the shouts of troops as they manned the perimeter against constant Reaper probing attacks, the hopeless desperation as commanders read out checklists for incoming units...only to find they had arrived at half or a quarter strength...or worse still, not at all. The streets of London were no longer safe for even humans. Earth, which had once been dominated by humans, now belonged to the Reapers...and they were eager to provide reminders to those who set foot on their turf. The death grip tightened, unrelenting and squeezing the life from those who lived on it. It was suffocating._

_He watched this with calculating eyes. He listened, he watched, he noted. He had seen this before. On the many worlds he had visited. Palaven, Sur'Kesh, Thessia...the story was always the same. The Reapers showed no mercy, had no remorse. They were on a mission of genocide, confident in their technological and intellectual superiority. But even the Reapers had finally made the mistake, and it would prove fatal. They underestimated him. This galaxy. They had failed twice already against him and his team, and today, he had brought to bear the greatest military alliance in galactic history to prove, once and for all, that the Reapers were little more than a threat to unite against._

_But he wasn't alone._

_"John?" a voice asked to his left, quiet and reserved._

_He reached up to his helmet and switched off the comms. The voices stopped, granting him peace. He turned from where he stood at the window, and found himself joined by his most trusted companion. The chief engineer of his ship, one Tali'Zorah vas Normandy. But she was much more than that to him. She wasn't just a friend or a subordinate. She was his will to fight. The reason the Reapers had underestimated him and his conviction to win._

_"I thought you were talking with Admiral Raan?" he asked._

_"I was," she responded simply. She hesitated at first, but it didn't take long to break through that uncertainty to reach forward and hug him, her arms wrapping tightly around her torso and pressing her helmet into his chest, "But we'll be leaving for the battle soon...I wanted to spend that time with you."_

_He returned the gesture without thinking, wishing right now that he could kiss her. Her suit and his bulky armor stood in their way, granting them what little intimacy they were capable of from within their confines. He sighed, feeling the full weight of his exhaustion and weariness breaking him down every moment he had spent observing to the battlefield around them, "I was going to come look for you...spend whatever time we have left, even if only for a few minutes."_

_There was a sniff, the sound normally drowned out by gunfire, but not now that she had tapped into their private comm link. Now their words were their own, a realm of privacy granted to them that only technology could provide, "I wish I could kiss you."_

_"A hug will do fine," he returned mutedly. He paused, and after a moment, laughed lightly, "I like to think I give good hugs."_

_"They're better when we're not both wearing armor," she reciprocated, although there wasn't any humor to be found in her voice, "They're so much...so much more...real..."_

_The fear creeping into her voice was undeniable. The urge to comfort her was overpowering, but he knew now wasn't the time, nor the place for his usual remedy. They had spent what little intimacy they had left to indulge together a couple of days ago. It wasn't enough, and it never was, but in the short amount of time they had alotted...it was the best they could manage. But during that time words had been spoken, fears vented. Both of them knew what was to come, and the possibility of survival. The odds weren't in their favor, and while both of them liked to joke of their invincibility...the fact was that this battle would have many casualties. Even worse...one of them, or even both, could be part of that casualty list._

_As death approached, he had thought he had accepted this. But seeing Tali here with him now, holding her in his arms, it only became harder. His grip tightened on her as she shook, but he couldn't allow them to surrender to despair. They had too much to lose, too much to gain. Fear paralyzed them both, rendering words obsolete and useless in the confusion. But he needed to regain control. He needed to convince her that not all hope was lost. It would contradict everything he had told her to prepare for, but it would save her from hopelessness._

_She needed him. He needed her. The answer was obvious._

_But Tali wasn't weak. She had proven that over the years, and even as he moved to pull away from her, to offer calming words of reassurance, the quarian was already looking up at him, pushing aside her own sadness to check on his own well being, "Are you okay? How...how do you feel?"_

_They kept their helmets close, their proximity so close that their visors intermittently tapped against each other, trying to speak in low tones when they were already on private channels. This close, he could just make out the silhouette of her face...features such as her small nose and glowing eyes enrapturing his attention, "I won't lie to you. There's so much riding on this that the pressure feels overwhelming. I have literally billions of soldiers under my command. They will live and die at my beck and call. I'll be sending many of them to be slaughtered...what's left will only be delaying the Reapers until we've reached the Beam. I wield the fate of so many soldiers in my hands. And the foe we're facing...I feel like I'm suffocating, Tali. That's how I feel. Like I can't breathe."_

_"You're not alone," she whispered mollifyingly, a hand reaching up to cup the part of his helmet where she believed one of his cheeks would be, "So much is falling into place. When I think of all that has happened since this war began...I can't imagine what I would have done without you. I can't imagine how you managed to even do it. All these races, all these people...banding together. Criminals of every stripe, former enemies, organics and machines...not a single person here could have ever been considered compatible, but you've made it work. When the war came to my people, when we invaded Rannoch...it fell to me to save seventeen million of my people. My entire species. We're both victims of the pressures those in power placed on us to save everything we know. And together, we've braved the storm. You've always had my back...but now it all rests on this. I won't lie to you, John...I'm scared. I hate not knowing what awaits us at the end of the road, where this all ends. I...I want more time."_

_"I know," he responded limply, before finally moving that extra inch and bringing their masks together, their breathing audible to one another. All other sounds were drowned out...the war beyond, the chatter of soldiers within, Anderson as he argued with Major Coats over strategy...all of it was irrelevant. He had spent all of his time mulling over strategy. How to win this battle. He had spoken with his comrades, made his goodbyes. They were more than his crew...they were family. But only one person deserved his full attention right now, and that person was the only presence he desperately craved. So he filtered them all out. It was selfish. But when all was said or done, she was all that mattered now, "Let's make it count."_

_The time for strategy and tactics was over. The battle was near. He had done all he could to prepare for the inevitable. All that was left was to embrace what little comfort remained to be found amongst this nightmarish wasteland. With what little light remained in his tormented, fractured lifestyle._

_No further words were said. Ten minutes...that's how long they had until full mobilization began. Those ten minutes were spent holding each other. They ignored the stares shot their way, because they didn't matter. Some soldiers were even respectful, deliberately shying away from them in order to grant them the privacy they needed, understanding that what they were witnessing were two soldiers, tired from war, entertaining the remaining vestiges of closeness they could enjoy. Potentially their last._

_They wanted more time. So they fought like hell to get it._

* * *

 

He was gone from London, returned to the safety of his room. When he looked outside, he didn't see the muddy, grey and tarnished landscape of a destroyed city, but safely back on Rannoch. He realized then that it had been a memory, a reminder of the moment where he had believed he was truly experiencing his last private moments with the woman he cherished. He remembered the feelings he had felt then: fear. Uncertainty. Apprehension. Anger.

But he also remembered what it felt to hold Tali...it was like a siphon. It drained him of his agonies and gave him asylum. It was the most peace he's ever felt. What should he give that? Why would he? That peace gave him purpose. A reason to live on.

He turned back from the window, eyes on his mirror. A hand fiddled with his tie, but quickly snapped away from it, a confident smile beginning to build.

_Screw the tie. And this nervousness...I have no need for it. There's nothing to be worried about. Today I keep a promise. You wanted more time, Tali. We both do. Now that we've got it, I see no reason to let it slip out of our hands._

Both hands smoothing over his tux, he grabbed a comb and began to rake it through his hair, a grand smile consuming his lips as his shaking hand finally stilled. Even his right leg brokered no argument with this change of tone, the usual aches and pains that absorbed it fading away from his concentration. They knew when to grant him solace.

Just under two years ago, he had counted down the minutes until Tali and himself would have to part, pick up their weapons and rush into battle, possibly never to return. Today, he would count down the minutes until they were married.

Excitement was the only emotion he had left. He grasped it.

And he didn't let go.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**No, you didn't read that wrong. This chapter is definitely not 20,000 words.** _

_**I've had a lot of complaints about the verbosity and word length of my chapters, and they're all perfectly valid. I myself have been unsatisfied with the length for a while, but I just haven't had the mindset to actively change it. Well, with the start of Act II, I'm finally doing just that. No more 20,000 word chapters, unless they're SUPPOSED to be that long. Things will be short and too the point, while also keeping to that standard of writing that you guys seem to like so much. I doubt I'll have a lot of people complaining about this change, and I can't say I'm bothered by that. I definitely had more fun writing this chapter than I have had writing in a long time. But you know, that could also be because this is the last of the build-up chapters...** _

_**Chapter 17 will be up next, then I'll be doing the first of my new project ideas. After that, I'll do at least one Galactic Codex prompt, if not two. This won't impede EQC's progress...in fact, I'll be doing two EQC chapters per allotment from now on. Perfectly timed too, since the story will be getting much faster paced now. I thank you all for tolerating the slow pace so far and for bearing with me...your patience WILL be rewarded.** _

_**Until then,** _

_**Keelah se'lai, troopers!** _

_**Oh, and music suggestions of course:** _

**Morning Hangovers: "Lost In You" by Sam Hulick, Cris Velasco and Sascha Dikiciyan from the game** _ **Mass Effect 3: Citadel DLC**_.

 **Details of the Plan: "Enigma Photo/Swastika" by Richard Marvin from the film** _ **U-571**_.

 **Wedding Worries (Tali): "Epilogue" by Henry Jackman from the game** _ **Uncharted 4: A Thief's End**_.

**Wedding Worries (Shepard): "A Normal Life" by Henry Jackman from the game** _**Uncharted 4: A Thief's End.** _


	18. Emancipation of the Venerate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Exaltation squad arrives on Rannoch: the rescue mission is in play.

" _That was the only time she'd allowed herself to break down before the teenaged Aisha, who was finding it difficult to wrap her head around the fact that the father she hero-worshipped had feet of clay_." - Kiran Manral.

* * *

_Shepard Residence, Rannoch - February 13, 2188 - Immediately after_.

Outside, a storm was brewing. A conglomeration of converging cloudbursts, pulled together by a single will and direction.

Not a natural storm, mind you. That's just the term the turian rather jocosely used to describe the dozens upon dozens of new and old faces that had begun to congest in front of the house, rummaging and mingling amongst the many other guests that had gathered to enjoy the festivities. They shared many characteristics with a storm: they were capriciously loud, inordinate in number, domineering to the extreme and windswept to a degree of being assertive. It was enough to expose him to madness, and he wasn't even the subject of their scrutiny. He counted himself lucky in that regard, in fact. This crowd, in this one place, the entirety of it eager to get a slice of the sensationalized events that they would be privy to, proved to be an ravenous beast that could get out of control if provoked.

Here however, in this house, was where some solitude and escapism could be sought after, and found in abundance. The walls were hollow, yet sound found it difficult to transfer through them, and throughout the cavernous layers of the dwelling, hardly a word could be deciphered from the gathering of guests and witnesses beyond its confines. Their individual voices were muted, gelling together to form an unintelligible mass of dialogue that neither made sense nor was inviting analysis. The anterior of the house remained occupied, but inside, there was quiet to be found. It allowed people time to think. Granted them privacy with their own ruminations, which turned out to be quite the grace.

Especially for the groom who resided upstairs, battling with their own hesitations and fears at this very moment. The separation from his dozens of visitants allowed both sides time to adjust to changing circumstances, although the battle he was more concerned with was the one grappling his friend. It didn't scare him, as he knew it was a minor issue his friend would just need time to sort out, but it did unify his thoughts, giving them a focal point from which to prime their attentions.

_He'll figure it out, he's battled far worse than pre-wedding jitters. If him and Tali are any indication, it's nothing a mental self-beratement and some quick skirmishes with Lord Killjoy won't solve._

He'd been with Shepard throughout it all. From tackling skyscraper-sized Reapers, to toppling a deranged demagogue. Been there, done that, as the saying would go. Any historian would have a tough time tracking the many variances in his life to this moment, but he could hardly blame them: it was a chaotic jigsaw. The cantankerous, bellicose C-Sec officer of yesterday was a life that seemed disembodied from his own, as it hardly represented the man he had forged himself into in the years proceeding. Nobody in that position would ever fathom rising to that challenge, being swept up in a campaign as death defying and eye-opening as the Reapers were. But somehow he had done it...not only that, but he had found friends in a human and a quarian, two species he hadn't really considered possible to be his friends, let alone people he trusted with his life. The former had been at war with his people just three decades beforehand, and the latter had a stereotypical stigma surrounding them that even he had initially fallen prey to.

And now he was best man,  _prelatum ostri_ , to their wedding. A human he considered a brother, a quarian he considered one of his best friends, and the two of them were getting married. Oh, and he was in a relationship with someone he would have been arresting back in his C-Sec days. The  _Normandy_ was a trip and a half, and there was little confusion as to why it had earned the epithet 'Milky Way safari.' If there was a species in the galaxy, they had probably served on that ship, save for a few.

The turian picked at the formal attire he was sporting. A blue shirt with light green trimmings, topped off with a jet stream of orange forming a ring at the base. A matching cobalt explosion could be found in his pants, the bright color nearly blinding in its radiance. Shepard had neglected to comment on what he thought of the clothing of choice, as Garrus very rarely shed his armor aside from formal occasions, but the gleam in the human's eye had told Garrus everything he needed to know. 'Stick to the armor,' it might as well have said.

_Never was a stickler for fashion sense. On Palaven, the only fashion sense is what color your armor is, and whether it matches the rifle on your back._

Thankfully, Shepard's lack of a comment was something of a liberation in and of itself, allowing Garrus to remain partial to his own self-deprecation. If there was one aspect he was certain of, it was that he would be shedding this clothing the moment the wedding was over. He had chosen the attire personally, despite Kasumi's offer to help, and he was beginning to regret not jumping on that opportunity to have such a lugubrious removed from his hands.

As the human saying went: you dug the grave, now lie in it.

_Morbid, even macabre. Fitting though._

Luckily, the distaste in which he expressed with his choice of formal habiliment had little room to prolong itself, as he could now hear the audible creaking of floorboards as footsteps imparted their weight upon them. From where he stood, body leaning against the concluding baluster, its glossy, robust chatoyancy far more protuberant than initially appeared to be the case as it easily supported the weight of one hundred and twenty pounds of turian leaning against it, he could crane his head at just the right height to see onyx-clothed, well-presented Shepard marching down the steps, one by one, hand adjusting the cuff of his rightmost wrist.

The man looked almost entirely different from what Garrus usually saw of him. The decently-presented, impermanent and irregular appearance of the man had been metamorphosed into the man he now witnessed before him. His hair was combed to one side, his beard looked to have been neatly trimmed and ordered along the margins, his red tie (which the human had made a point of rearranging for the past hour or so) and black tux looking to be a second skin with how well it molded to his body shape. Each footstep echoed louder than usual, and upon closer expectation he was met with a matching pair of tight-laced derbies, the sweet tobacco brown a clear match for the hardwood decor.

All things considered...he looked like a man on the verge of giving up life's freedoms.

"Finally," he drawled, his regular sarcastic wit serving as the preliminary, go-to greeting for his friend, "Was beginning to think you intended on marrying the mirror. I know how self-obsessed you can be."

Fastening up a final errant button, Shepard reached the bottom of the stairwell, grinning as he slapped his friend's back playfully, already motioning the both of them towards the front door, where they would inevitably have to mingle with the battalion-sized complement of people waiting to ambush the man of the hour outside, "Don't project yourself onto me, Vakarian. Just keep in mind there's no bottles to shoot here, so I'm not sure how useful you'll end up being today."

"If it's the bottles that scare you, I'll be sure to keep you away from any alcohol," he whipped back in sporting retort.

"And I shall keep you from the mirrors, if it's all the same to you. Today is about me and Tali, not your ego."

"I'll pretend that hurts."

"You won't have to try hard."

Outside, the party kicked into full gear. Throngs of people of almost every race, from all corners of the galaxy, had somehow convinced themselves to squash into a moshpit just under two hundred square meters in length: it wasn't quite sardines in a can, but it was a closeness that only a quarian could come to appreciate.

Asari, turians, humans, quarians, krogan...he was positive that he even saw a volus. From every stripe of every government sector they came flocking, eager to bear witness to what the media called the first big galactic event since the Reaper War ended. The Shepardist crisis aside, many people were fascinated by the concept of the galaxy's greatest war hero bonding to one of his quarian crew members, and were perhaps even more eager to be present at this momentous occasion. Everybody had something they liked to brag about, and if being present at the great Commander Shepard's wedding scored brownie points amongst prospective friends or suitors, all the more for it.

Through it all, Garrus could see the benefit of having so many people gathered in one place could achieve, and with the Reapers, and now the Samaritan's FAICRU, having been soundly defeated...the citizenry ached for the taste of fabulous splendor to wet their palates, as well as substitute for the acrid, horrific aftermath of the Reaper conflict. It helped to see a bit of happiness, and a wedding was perfect for that. A window into the future: proof the galaxy was moving on.

Shepard had been far less inviting to the idea. In a way, it was quite jocular: what had originated as a quiet, low-key event held between close friends and family, had been transformed into the opposite over time. It had taken time, but Shepard had eventually been convinced to broaden the guest list to important dignitaries, such as Council members and politicians: that compromise had been suggested by the Admiralty Board, as many members of the quarian conclave especially wanted to be privy to the bonding, largely because it fell to them to ratify and validate the bonding itself in accordance with quarian law. And then, by some stroke of luck, he was somehow convinced to make the wedding an open event. With the Shepardists gone, the people wanted a distraction from the tediousness and woes of post-war reconstruction, and a wedding between famous war heroes was a perfect outlet. Garrus couldn't remember who suggested it...only that Shepard, the man that he was, had found it difficult to truly put up resistance to such a harmless idea.

They descended down the porch steps and towards the large encampment of sorts, a series of pitched tents and portable structures dotting the landscape, all of which had been set up in the days preceding. Refreshment kiosks and mini-cafes lined the flanks of the area, tables and chairs lined haphazardly across the surface of Rannoch's terrain. Laughter could be heard as jokes were told, and Garrus did a double take as he looked towards the large, six-by-six stage that Shepard and Tali would soon to be married on, finding a quarian female, donning a lime green  _realk_ and light blue mask, singing to a gathered crowd. His surprise must have been noticeable, because the next moment Shepard was tapping his shoulder, returning him to reality as he turned to face his friend.

"Someone you recognize?" the human jested.

"Who wouldn't?" Garrus threw back, waving his arm in the general direction of the quarian on stage, her accent full of musical wit and gravitas, "That's Lita'Orn nar Idenna. Well, vas Mubra now. She's famous for being the only quarian singer to win the Galactic Video Music Awards seven times in a row, not to mention she was the lead singer of the J-Force for quite a while. I'm sure Tali knows her. Must have been an inspiration for a lot of pilgrims her age."

"You seem well acquainted."

He shrugged, the two of them continuing to watch as the green-veiled quarian seemed to direct and control the crowd, feet propelling back and forth across the stage with an energetic bounce in her step that was almost infectious. Her fans subconsciously pantomimed her, hands waving back and forth and shouts of approval being thrown at the young quarian singer. Her voice only seemed to propel itself to new heights, her lifting accent and rambunctious tones combining to create an angelic harmony, which reached deep into the mind and encouraged biochemical reactions throughout the mind.

Even Shepard was impressed, although he had to practically shout over the cacophony of the people in attendance, "She's got a good voice. I can see why she's popular. Can't imagine it was cheap to hire her to perform here! I wonder who hired her!?"

"No idea!" he shouted back, motioning to his friend to follow him away from the overpoweringly loud concert, "But if it keeps people happy, I don't think you have much to complain about! Besides, don't you have a thing for quarian accents!?"

"For  _Par_ ' _leh_  accents like Tali's, yeah," Shepard fleetingly admitted, finding little issue with the snide comment, "I think Lita has a Northern  _Uma_ accent. Not bad, but nothing compared to my wife!"

"'Your wife'? Slow down, Shepard. You're getting ahead of yourself!"

Shepard just guffawed, grinning brightly and shamelessly as the two continued to weave through the complex maze of intermingling peoples, each confrontation with the crowd seeming to pull them in different directions as they gravitated towards differing aspects of the festivities, "I guess I am! Just eager to get on with it, that's all!"

"I sure can't tell," the turian returned sarcastically, allowing his voice to quieten now that they had escaped to the perimeter, far enough away that Lita's singing was no longer drowning themselves out, "Just take the time to remember all the freedoms you'll be giving up once you marry Tali before you get so eager to give them all up."

The two of them watched as a squad of geth trooper-class security units marched past, their pulse rifles holstered and headflaps twitching erratically as they navigated their way through the assemblage of aliens, the synthetics no doubt absorbing a lifetime's worth of observations as they witnessed all the individual idiosyncrasies each person present had on display. Aside from waging a war beside their troops, this was very likely to be the first time they had ever actually been granted the opportunity to descry the daily routines of organics, outside of their quarian creators. A wedding couldn't have been a more perfect social gathering from which to gather and dissect such information, and Garrus had to wonder if the optics of those geth were lingering on him in particular for any length of time.

Shepard hardly paid them any mind, scratching his well kept stubble non-chalantly, "In case you didn't notice Garrus, I've been in the military all my life...didn't really have many 'freedoms' to enjoy to begin with. No real permanent residence, no long-term girlfriends, no light night clubbing, no video games...I seem to remember you were present for the three years that I spent constantly on the move? If anything, marrying Tali will help me enjoy some new freedoms. For me, marriage isn't the scary dictator you're imagining it to be, Garrus. Maybe you should give it a shot one day."

That seemed to hit a bit closer to home than Shepard seemed to realize. The turian actually hadn't expected such a response, nor did he have the usual sarcastic quip armed and ready to unleash the moment it was poised. Instead his mouth opened and closed like an idiot fumbling for the right words, mandibles twitching in perceptible hesitation.

Garrus had been in many relationships, but marriage had never really been a possibility in any of them. Matrimony suggested a willingness to settle down, to get comfy and put roots in the ground. But Garrus had never identified with any of that: he had never identified with the notions of safety and sensibility that people often associated as positive attributes of marriage. None of it appealed to him, and perhaps most important of all, he had never met someone he had really deemed worth the experience.

Well...not until recently anyway.

"Maybe," he stated non-committally, his admittedly not-too-subtle attempt to deflect the unspoken question, "But not today."

"Guess I can't argue with that," Shepard responded with suspicious expedition. From the brief glance Garrus got of his expression, he caught a hint of repressed recognition. He cursed his own inability to keep the affect Shepard's statement had on his emotions just as repressed, Shepard's uncanny ability to detect and act upon hesitation wherever he could detect it seemingly a curse to those who didn't want to be subjected to it. It was far from exaggeration when one said he was a good judge of character, so the turian should hardly be surprised when a split second of shock was picked up by the man.

If he hadn't gotten a job as a soldier, he'd have made a damn good psychologist.

Whatever the case, it didn't seem like Shepard knew the intent behind Garrus' uncertainty, or he simply chose not to question it any further, because the man didn't press the issue any further, raising an arm to point at a figure he had made out in the crowd, "I'm going to go talk to Hackett. Talk more later?"

"Let me guess," Garrus halted the man, arm spread out to block his swift escape and glad for the opportunity to let his slight in concentration slide, "You want to discuss the new military alliance? What happened to 'galactic politics is no longer any of my business'?"

Shepard just rolled his eyes, pushing his friend's rather weak block aside with an equally weak shove, "Hey, I said I wouldn't intervene. Besides, the UGC is  _my_ brain child. I helped forge the damn thing...least I can do is keep up to date on its status. It's not like I'm going to insist on being named 'Supreme Commander of Allied Forces'."

"Uh-huh," Garrus smirked, a thought occurring to him, "You know, Tali  _might_ make you swear off interest in the military altogether."

"She can damn well try," Shepard firmly declared, moving further away into the crowd, pushing against the people who were walking in multiple directions, almost like a pebble trying to move backwards against a tidal wave raging onwards.

Cupping his mouth, he shouted out to the man who was becoming gradually more and more consumed by the fluidic congregation, "We'll see if you remain this confident twenty years down the road!"

Shepard just guffawed, although the sound was becoming increasingly muted when combined with the collective of voices he shared the sound barrier with, "She takes my guns, I'll take her omni-tool! Marriage is a war Garrus, and I'VE ALREADY WON!"

All he could do was manage a chuckle, finally surrendering his friend to the abyss. Looking around, all he could find was throngs of people, asari and krogan and the odd volus, all of them shoving past each other or sitting idly as they chatted with friends, eagerness and excitement reflecting off of them in waves. All these smiling faces, as alien and foreign to him as they were, made him feel safe enough that the sidearm he had concealed on his back didn't really register in his mind, the comfortable presence pressing into his back notwithstanding. He sighed, eyes still incisively searching the crowd for familiar faces, until they finally landed on one Urdnot Wrex, who was in the process of sharing a drink with Grunt, Zaeed and Javik...all of whom were chortling at some joke he couldn't determine.

It must have been pretty gruesome if it had Javik smiling.

Deciding to join them, he pushed his way through, the intricate zig-zag he had to perform to reach them a carefully produced and coordinated amble. He was in no hurry, and the day was long. He would find little use for the pistol on his back this day. There was no danger. No threat to his friend's life, or to those of the lives around him. The Shepardists were gone, the Samaritan was in custody, and the majority of their other enemies had been grounded into dust.

If there was a chance to relax, he was going to take it.

* * *

Night had long corrupted the heavens over Rannoch by the time their shuttle arrived, gliding under low power through the atmosphere as it descended with the stealth of a panther. Its angular hull, worn from years of neglectful maintenance and exposure to the elements, used the cover of darkness to hide the imperfections of the vehicle, dropping from the sky at several hundred meters per second. Its ventral thrusters, all that stood between it and slamming into the nearest hillside, coughed with brief sprays of dribbling fire, steadying the already decaying orbit of the exoatmospheric transport.

Its descent continued unimpeded, unnoticed. The quarian navy did not rush to intercept it, and it had not receieved anti-aerospace flak from ground-based planetary defenses, which could only mean the owners of the planet had failed to take notice of the unwanted vehicle's arrival. Only thanks to the efforts of one quarian sniper was such a feat achieved, otherwise their broad sensor sweeps and geth LIDAR would have picked them out for well-placed surface-to-orbit gun to blow out of the sky. Thus far, their trespass had been accomplished with sufficient impunity.

One kilometer after another, and the shuttle finally broke through the cloudy barrier that seemed to perforate the aerial expanse, hills and mountains and endless plains coming into view through the shuttle's viewport. Guided by the precision and dexterity that came pre-programmed with the onboard VI piloting suite, it avoided these rough areas, seeking a wider plane to find purchase.

Into view came their principle target: the Crusader's wedding. Visible in the near distance, a cascade of lights and sound could be seen, with the city skyline of El'Tivv in the distance the only great luminescence to eclipse it for kilometers around. It seemed to pulse and vibrate, full of vibrance and intemperate emotion. For the occupants of the shuttle, they saw those lights from a different perspective. It represented a tactile culmination of their greatest hopes and fears, a series of emotions that played in concert with the growing apprehension their difficult and taxing mission would bring. Suffice it to say, where those lights provoked celebration in some...

...it instilled vigor and determination in the Exaltation squad. That party was a celebration of manipulation and corruption; a decrepit orgy that anointed the Herald and Crusader's union as if it was just and beautiful, when it was in fact an evil and disgusting amalgamation of selfishness and deceit. It was a product of the Herald's planning and scheming, and as loyal servants of the Crusader, it was up to them to crash the party.

But Roman much preferred going one step beyond the expectations. He wouldn't just crash the party, he'd remove its key player, and in the process, purify their soul.

"Bring us down near the plateau, the one on a bearing of .24 degrees mark 8, north side," he quietly ordered, one hand gripping a support handle on the ceiling while the other braced him against the unoccupied conn, "We'll leg it from there."

The VI responded with toneless acknowledgement, the simulated voice of a male human sounding far too disconnected and weary to ever hope to properly emulate the real thing. He gave wordless approval, turning away the moment he had delegated his orders and reentering the passenger cabin, where the rest of the team had assembled and was prepared to get underway.

"Remember your orders," he announced upon arrival. Cann and Breen were the only members of the squad who were properly geared up, with Krato, Tikhas and himself wearing civilian clothing to better benefit their infiltration into the party's festivities. The quarian sharpshooter looked to be running a final check on his sniper rifle, while his vorcha friend checked and double checked his gear, his vest outfitted with an assortment of gadgets and tools that Roman could only guess the practicality and use of, "We'll be touching down in a few minutes. The moment we land, we're on a clock. We get in, make the grab, and get out. No superfluous time-wasting. The galaxy is counting on us."

"Glory to the Crusader," they responded, knowing the appropriate reciprocation of Roman's orders. It was a well rehearsed maxim at this point, as much a part of the FAICRU as their faith was.

"Glory to the Crusader," he returned, hand reaching down to his side to check for his M-3 Predator sidearm, which was tucked neatly underneath his shirt, out of sight. He didn't foresee needing it, but should any issue arise, it was better to have it and not need it, then need it and not have it. Roman preferred over compensation to under compensation, as the latter could determine the success or failure of any mission, and this was one such mission that necessitated victory. There would be  _no_ second chances.

Do or die, as they say.

As the shuttle neared its resting place, the Exaltation squad had already braced themselves for the mission ahead. Roman smoothed his hands over his stolen Alliance marine uniform; yet another courtesy of their neighbour naval spook. While he would never be foolhardy enough to doubt the quarian's capabilities, managing to procure an Alliance military uniform seemed like a feat even she couldn't pull off...and yet she had. The only conceivable option available to her, especially when conflated into the small time frame that they had from the mission's conception to its execution, was one even Roman shuddered to think about.

While his father may have abandoned his duty to the Alliance to become a gun-for-hire (a very expensive gun-for-hire at that), his warrior ethos had endured. All marines were brothers-by-uniform, and that instinct that had been hammered into them since basic...even Roman, who had never seen a marine bootcamp in his life, had felt that same comraderie towards his fellow Black Jackals...which is why he had never taken up arms against them when he finally broke away. They may have become compromised in their ethics, but Roman's father had been a convicted, strong-willed man, and an even more uncompromising tutor to his son. Needless to say, Roman had a deep sense of respect for his fellow marines, so the idea that one of them may have been murdered to obtain this uniform, or that they had simply given it up like some kind of trophy...

_The blue and black runs through my veins, even if I never personally served. It runs through the Crusader's veins too, which is why I must follow him. Duty for us transcends obligation...it's borderline genetic. Every breath we take, every trigger pull of our weapon, every soldier we lead into battle, every minute we spend in combat. The adrenaline that pumps through us as a byproduct of those actions makes us what we are. It's true living. Some can't handle the pressure. The professionals, the warriors...we're the ones who last._

That's why he found it repugnant to wear a uniform he didn't own, that he hadn't earned. And it repulsed him to acknowledge the possibility of its acquisition.

_The only reason I won't kill Rela for this is because we're supposed to be on the same side. Perhaps when the Crusader ascends to his rightful place, he won't mind an amendment to our list of people requiring justice. Disciple or not, we don't kill or exploit our own. That's not what we are._

_Here I am speaking in future tenses. That must be the remnant of the Black Jackal still within me, where failure has to be intentional to be achievable._

Perceived sense of warranted haughtiness aside, Roman found himself doubtful that his own adroit track record could be projected to the rest of the team under his command. With the Black Jackals, every member was a proven operator, specialized in their own tactical and strategic capabilities that honed them into the 'hyper-lethal' killers that the Alliance had designated them as. Each one could operate as a lone wolf if they wanted to...but the strongest facet of their proficiency, and what had truly made them an organization to be feared, was their teamwork. Together, they were a small army. They knew each other's thoughts, working in tandem in a well-rehearsed play.

But Roman was gambling with lives and resources here. The Samaritan had honoured him with an immense task, but he had been essentially handled a series of unknowns, expected to toss some dice and hope it rolled the numbers he wanted. They had a good hybrid of skills on display here: a quarian marine, a batarian mercenary, a drell infiltrator and a vorcha engineer. Roman knew what Breen could do because he had raised the vorcha himself, bestowed upon him the same lessons and training he had been mentally grafted with. But the others...today was a field test, and while Roman would have preferred a less paramount trial by fire for such an experiment, the Samaritan left him little choice.

The shuttle shook as it landed, vibrations rocking through the bulkheads and his body equally. A less than stellar landing, lacking any avian grace, but the message it sent was clear: they had arrived. The mission had now begun.

He lifted a hand to his left ear, his index digit poking into the ear canal and finding the small, nearly invisible earpiece fitted there. Satisfied it was in prime condition to be used, the former N7 ran one last check of his uniform, shredding evidence of his intent. The cap on his scalp was adjusted with a flick of his wrist, the hat hiding his umber brown hair in a tight seal. His legs straightened, hands interlocked behind him, and his head tilted so his cap did not obscure anything. With a click of his tongue, he thumbed the hatch controls, waiting as the cabin responded to the change in atmosphere, inner-track hatch sliding to the left with a creak and scrape of metal against hydraulic pressure.

It was quiet. Roman met the solitude with a brisk step out into the open, the crunch of dirt and the mushy squelch of grass being crushed beneath his footsteps going unnoticed. He appraised the starry night, two of Rannoch's moons glowing celestially like bright-lit beacons from another dimension. Not even the black shapes that beat through the moonlight uttered a sound, their distant monoforms passing by peacefully. Even the foreground noise of roisterers from the wedding barely imparted themselves on the tranquility of their surroundings, granting Roman the smallest modicum of space to think.

Despite the inkling of concern that harried him from the atmosphere all the way to the surface, no quarian or geth military forces had scrambled out to intercept them. No ships blasted their search lights down on them, and the shuttle hadn't been surrounded by a squad of armed marines. Thus far, they had gone completely undetected. They were less than a kilometer from the wedding, without any armed response coming to greet them, so Roman wasn't about to discount the advantage they already possessed.

His lungs drafted in the alien air of the planet as Cann hiked past him, his Javelin sniper rifle balanced in one hand, attached to an arm that was slung at his side. The quarian gave no further regard to his commanding officer, wordlessly ignoring him and hardly even managing a cursory glance as he stalked towards a nearby hill with the view he needed. He demonstrated a surprising strength in his right arm to be able to carry his rifle so casually, the Javelin he wielded obviously not designed with organic physiology in mind. This manifestly did not bother Cann in the slightest, the quarian's handling of the weapon indicative of comfort, even reverence.

He hoped the man was as good a shot as he was a weapon handler. The mission may depend on it. The cogs of the machine  _needed_ to be in perfect order.

On the bow side of the shuttle, another hatch opened, larger and bulkier. From behind its tall sheath raced out a smaller, more agile vehicle of sophisticated and ergonomic design, its shape resembling that of a modified hover bike, which it effectively was. The 'Grasshopper', as Roman had nicknamed it for its design similarity to the Earth insect, was held off the ground by two circular engine pads, one at the front and at the back, which blasted invisible mass effect fields between itself and the surface to generate its hovering ability, only noticeable due to the electrical, cobalt tendrils that erupted from the rims of the pads themselves. Its rugged, metal hull had little to no armor, with no defensive armaments and only a medium-strength kinetic barrier as protection, all such defenses stripped as a sacrifice for high bursts of speed.

The Grasshopper was not a universal, mass produced vehicle of some major company, however. It was a lonely manufacture, with only one unit ever built: that being the one Breen had constructed. He hadn't exaggerated when he said Breen's engineering abilities had proliferated from the moment he had found his knack for them, and his brilliance had led to him creating the single-seat craft that would finally see use today. It was the second iteration of the model, although 'Mark II' was never a term Breen ever used to describe it, given he considered the 'Mark I' to be little more than a proof of concept.

The chassis was a standard commercial hover bike, with upgrades to its propulsion systems and maneuverability made. The cockpit was encased in a reinforced ceiling that could be retracted to allow freedom of movement in and out of the vehicle, and its guidance was tied to a state-of-the-art neural interface that utilized virtual reality technology to create an environment in which the driver could use their mind to direct the vehicle's more advanced movement, granting a boost to its performance with little to no input lag. It was an impressive feat, and Breen had even begun working on a Mark III by the time they joined the Shepardists...a project he had been forced to put on hold because of their mission.

Once again, their mission served as a field test for yet another member of their team. However, this was a variable he was far more comfortable with, given his knowledge of Breen's prowess. If he didn't think the Grasshopper was ready, he wouldn't have suggested using it for a quick extract. "Its not the best, but it's what we have," the vorcha assured him.

Quicker than a rabbit, the Grasshopper sped off in the opposite direction, due north towards the house. Another element of its propulsion became apparent: it was startlingly silent. Little noise was expelled from its sudden burst of speed, the engine's exertion restrained and self-encased. All that could be heard was a dull hum as it vanished from view, a choking dust cloud and the gentle disturbance of the grass as wind whipped against it the only evidence that it had ever been there.

"I'm oscar mike," Breen announced shortly after, the vorcha's sharp and harsh voice a testament to his formerly elementary and crude speech that he had adopted from his equally primitive brethren as he used the military jargon Roman had also taught him to use, "All systems are good. No hiccups so far. Heading towards the house. Will signal when in position."

"Understood," Roman said in curt response. All the pieces on the chess board were moving into place now, and he couldn't be happier with the results. He wiped down his left sleeve, clearing it of the dust particles that had gathered there after being kicked up by Breen's bike, and looked up to nod at his drell and batarian associates. Their stares were intent and waiting, looking to him for how to proceed.

Roman approved. At least they knew the basics of how to follow.  _Let's put that to the test, shall we?_

So they did. One by one, they descended down a low slope, footprints left in the dirt and dust as they quietly and imprecisely trekked in the direction of the wedding, their composure set and their mission in progress. He couldn't read minds, and while he deemed himself a good judge of character, his inability to see the expressions of the batarian and drell under his command made it impossible to know what they were thinking. But Roman could find peace with his own thoughts: he knew what was expected of them, and what failure would bring to their organization. He had hammered into himself  _ad infinitum_ just how important this rescue could be for the FAICRU.

Today could make history. Roman was resolved to make sure history saw Exaltation squad as not just the victors, but as heroes. The heroes who liberated the Crusader. Heroes who lived up to the name of their unit.

Roman knew what pressure was like. The Black Jackals saw pressure as a challenge. A dare to fail. But the Black Jackals also loved to dare, and they were always the last to blink. No Black Jackal had ever failed a mission, and Roman would  _not_  sully their name in being the first.

It took them just under thirteen minutes to reach the outskirts of the party, where the noise intensified with every step they took. Rounding the edge of the plateau however, the wedding unveiled itself in its entirety as the three Shepardists finally arrived at the ground zero for Operation Witch Hunter. Lights flashed here and there, while people of numerous races moved about in randomized fashion, their movements frenzied and excited. The racial pool was diverse, with almost every species present amongst the mix, all of them thoroughly enraptured in the activities around them, totally oblivious to the events being set in motion in their midst and blissfully ignorant of the circumstances in which the wedding they celebrated took place around.

It was the perfect place to go unnoticed. Blending in would be easy.

Before long, the expected occurred: a raspy voice called out to the three of them, and they turned to see a trio of krogan warriors approaching them, all armed with ridiculously large M-300 claymore heavy shotguns, the hand-held artillery held in their reptilian grips able to fire a shell so powerful that it would bisect any unarmoured human in half, not to mention make a mess of most light combat armor. The recoil was nasty as well, packing enough of a punch to dislocate the shoulder of any human or other non-krogan dumb enough to try wielding it. They were fearsome weapons, and without his armor or weapons, even Roman gave pause at witnessing those tools of destruction being brought to bear in his presence.

But they had a plan, and they would stick to it. The wedding had a heavy security presence, and he'd professionally disappointed if they were able to just waltz right in.

The lead krogan, bearing the Urdnot clan marking, was clear advanced in his years, as the tell tale leathering of his skin could be seen once he had closed the remaining distance. He did not raise his weapon, especially upon seeing the Alliance insignia on Roman's chest, but his tone remained suspicious all the same, "I need all three of you to identify yourselves,  _now_."

"First Lieutenant Roman Dobroslav, Blue Falcon special forces," he declared himself, opening his omni-tool to flash his forged credentials infront of the krogan, "I'm here to help with security. A team of Blue Falcons was assigned here by Admiral Hackett. I'm a late reassignment. These two are with me: associates of Mr. Shepard and Commander Massani respectively. They arrived with me."

The krogan only took a few seconds to regard the credentials, beady eyes scrutinizing Roman's omni-tool for not a second too long before he nodded, motioning towards the party, "ID checks out. You can go in."

Keeping up with appearances, he continued to address the ranking krogan officer as he let his omni-tool's user interface evaporate, "You're part of securty...know where I can find my CO? His name is Captain Akimov. He's expecting me to report in once I arrive."

The krogan just shrugged, buying Roman's story without so much as another question. His men were already backing down, joining five other armed krogan at a nearby checkpoint, "How should I know? I don't keep tabs on the other security details; it's not my job. If you want to know where to find this captain of yours, I suggest checking with Admiral Hackett himself."

He gave a respectful nod, motioning for Krato and Tikhas to follow closely behind him. None of them spared a furtive glance back towards the older krogan, not wanting to provoke wayward suspicion. Instead they continued until they essentially merged with the host of races below, their forms becoming virtually indistinguishable to the naked eye from the rest of the seething mass.

"What now, boss?" Krato asked, Roman turning to see the batarian looking back and forth in search of their target.

"We execute our next objective," he recanted, gently pushing past a turian and asari couple who's intimate and excited make-out session had nearly caused them to careen into the trio, "All three of us will split up, search for our targets. Krato, find and track Vakarian. Tikhas, find and track the Crusader. I'll find this Captain Akimov, give him my cover story. Any minute now, Breen should be arriving at the house. Once I give him the go, it'll be your turn to move in. Every bit of this must go perfectly and without a hitch. If things go wrong, I'll be here to clean up the mess, but let's hope it doesn't come to that. Understood?"

"Got it," Krato declared, before taking a left turn into the crowd, hoping to flank the left side to get a better view of the turian in question. He was gone within moments.

Noting a lack of response from their expert infiltrator, he turned to address him, only to find...nothing. The drell was gone, likely having vanished into the crowd within moments of Roman's orders being given, or perhaps even before that. Whatever the case, Tikhas was no longer with them, his sudden and unannounced disappearance enough to vex the soldier.

_As long as he understands his part, I'll allow it. But if there's one thing this team needs to learn, it's to wait on my go. Tikhas will learn that soon enough._

Finally finding himself alone, Roman pressed forward, maintaining an air casuality and stoic readiness. For now, he was this mission's equivalent of a sleeper agent. From this point forward, until he was needed, he was just another member of the security team: devoted to the protection of the wedding and its participants, and an unassuming cog in the security of their enjoyment. And as far as anybody else knew, that's all that was the case. They knew not of the vorcha that would soon be hacking into the Shepard Residence, or of the drell and batarian cultists in their midst who were quickly locking onto their oblivious targets.

And least of all were they suspecting the soldier dressed in Alliance blue and black.

His comm crackled, and Breen's voice came through. He had arrived.

Showtime.

* * *

_There, that looks like a good place to set up._

Cann carefully surveyed his terrain, using his time isolated from the rest of the team to find the perfect sight line to the wedding. Many of the hills dotting the plateau were either too low or too exposed, which left him wandering for a few minutes longer than he would have liked. As fate would have it however, he found a large mound whose silhouette was a monolith compared to the rest. A large overhanging  _gemash_ tree, its many branches providing shade in the day, had its roots at the apex, while many bushes clothed its otherwise bare tip.

Cann knew this would be the perfect spot for a sharpshooter. The shrubbery and the three would hide him from the innocuous observer, and as he would come to note upon his approach to its precarious edge, arm reaching out to shove aside a few obnubilating bush limbs, he had a perfect, unobstructed view of the celebration just under a kilometer away. Everything about it was perfect, so with this in mind, he wasted no time in getting to work.

Laying his rifle down in the dirty ground, he looked up to see a  _bosh'tet_  staring at him, its bloodshot crimson eyes holding no hostility towards him and its elongated nose sniffing as it investigated the titanic humanoid who had chosen to occupy its territory. It was reared up on its hind legs, and its onyx coloured fur made it almost invisible in the darkening of the night. Cann's reaction to the creature was less than neutral, and he waved a hand aggressively through the air, compelling it to vacate the area. All he really wanted to do was shoot the abhorrent abomination and throw its corpse away, but he knew such a sound would draw the attention of every armed guard within that wedding, and he had, retrospectively speaking, foolishly left his combat knife in the shuttle.

Thankfully, the  _bosh'tet_ put up no resistance. As nomadic as his people had once been not too long ago, the marsupial's attachment to the bush it had resided within was fleeting, and it dashed off down the hillside, putting as much distance between itself and the strange giant as possible. Cann's eyes watched it leave until it was gone, leaving him alone once more, where he returned to his task.

Lying down on his belly, he grabbed the middle of his rifle for balance and dragged himself across the ground and through the bush. There was the sound of scraping as the twig-like limbs of the bushes tore at his helmet, the metal unyielding to the weaker material. Cann continued until he had broken through the outer layer, where he then proceeded to bring his rifle to bear, sliding it up until the stock pressed comfortingly against his shoulder, scope close to his mask. Adjusting the sight ever so minutely, he ran a few quick tests until he finally had the zoom resolution at just the right pitch, allowing him an up close and personal view of the party he himself was not attending.

As for what he could see through the scope, he felt a deep sense of disgust filling the pit of his stomach. Dozens had flocked to this so-called 'happy evening', enjoying the various facilities available to them and all eagerly excited for the grand main event. If Cann wasn't already aware of the context behind it, it might not have bothered him, aside from the very idea of allowing species like asari, turians and salarians, the same species who had left the quarians to rot after the Morning War, to visit their newly reclaimed homeworld. It seemed just like any other flashpoint in the lives of a happy couple...unfortunately, it was all a masquerade. One the Shepardists were determined to put down harshly.

_If only I was allowed to put a bullet through Tali'Zorah's head the moment she arrives. I'd love to see the look of shock on her face after I've put at least a few rounds through her neck and chest. Let her suffer a little, of course. Recompense for the crimes she's committed._

The sight of a red-stained purple  _realk_ lightened him with glee to imagine, but it was a dream that had to be put on hold. Besides, destroying the Herald's hopes and dreams of corrupting the Crusader would be enough to keep satiated until her retribution finally arrives. When that time arrived, he could only hope the Samaritan allowed him the honor of making the kill.

Turning his attentions from the view he was tasked with keeping tabs on, he raised his left arm and whisked his omni-tool into existence, quickly patching in the frequency encryption code needed to patch into the quarian military communications channel, 842 India, that the Migrant Fleet Marines used to communicate. He inputted the password, and smiled evenly to himself as the code was accepted, the time lag non-existent as he heard intermittent comm chatter fill his auditory filters. With his omni-tool away, he turned back to the party, carefully listening to his fellow marines while he kept a keen eye on his comrades down below. Speaking of which...

He turned the rifle until he could see the edge of the party, where he was just in time to see Roman, Tikhas and Krato being intercepted by three krogan security guards. Communications showed no indication of alarm or movement to intercept, so he had to assume this was part of the plan. His caution was rewarded as he watched the krogan guards back away, the three cultists moving to join the rest of the crowd. Cann continued to monitor them until they disappeared within.

After spending a few more minutes idly searching through the crowd, he heard Breen's voice signal through their mission comms. As Roman had ordered, the vorcha had now reported that he was in position, and ready to launch the operation.

Cann got comfortable, and felt his grip tighten on the rifle. Background noise was disregarded as he focused on the occasional radio check and coordinated security effort conducted by the marines below. All the while, he tried his best to search and isolate the Crusader from the rest of the surrounding garbage, with the hope of lessening the load expected on his drell teammate.

Cann watched. Cann listened. He was the  _qui'tee_ that saw everything.

* * *

A quietus tempest of dust, sand and muddy dirt took chaotic flight as a rush of artificial steel invention hovered through the plateau, its speed so vicious that it seemed to slice through the air itself, shockwaves of pressure echoing along its path seconds after its passing, causing grass and dirt to whip back from the abrupt gusts of unpredictable wind. Aspects of the vehicle could not be discerned in passing, save for its the unassuming cacoon of its superstructure, and arrow-shaped profile.

Not even the vehicle's operator could be identified amongst the jet of mobile metal, the tinted cockpit and obscuring dust cloud kicked up in the wakes of its engines making for an impenetrable screening. It overtook the native land mammals and reptilians that occupied the landscape, and its design defied quarian and geth conventions. It stood in defiance of understanding, and its hull seemed just as content at deflecting detailed observation as it was bullets.

Inside, the pilot remained quiet, save for the occasional opening and closing of his mouth as his species' natural inclination to pant as a measure to vent excess body heat took hold over him, his elongated tongue hanging out of his fearsome maw of needle-sharp teeth, seemingly unharmed by the bed of teeth it lay on. Ancillary sounds found themselves drowned out by the beeps and clicks of the numerous functions along his terminal, each representing vital instruments in the machine that were either working optimally, or were cascading fatally. As expected for a contrapion of his making, the former was conducively true. A delight of his handiwork.

Six fingers deftly maneuvered along the controls, simultaneously micromanaging and navigating. They demonstrated a familiarity with the craft, their knowledge of its intricate framework seemingly indicative of a learned erudite. The way it swerved to guide itself through the terrain, how it initiated bursts of speed, intermittently dispersed by even greater decelerations, and how it seemed to cut a path through the countryside, even though it was a stranger to these lands, were traits of someone who not only knew what tasks their construction could perform, but also of someone who had built it. Such intimate understanding only came from the craftsman, not any proprietor.

The vehicle's presence went entirely unnoticed, the only alarm raised amongst the pococurante: animals of land and air who cared little for the affairs of the sentient beings that had risen to dominate the land they shared with them. They were strange and unreasonable beasts, ones who spoke in pre-eminent languages and travelled the planet in machines of morphed metals and motorized propulsion. They were curious and terrifying, and so the creatures of Rannoch considered themselves wise to stay clear of them, especially the ones not so native to their world. They were silent witnesses: privy to the event, but lacking the intellectual capacity to grasp its weight. Their tongues would not let slip of this sighting, and they would carry on with their mundane, biologically programmed day like nothing extraordinary had occurred to jar it.

Ghost-like and otherwise unseen, Breen's Grasshopper was passing its field test with flying colors. He had triggered no alerts, no gunships descended to engage him, and the path he had laid out before himself had encountered no deleterious interruptions, making his simple task of 'A to B' redeployment fairly routine. Breen had, of course, expected such an outcome: but it was liberating, not to mention exciting, to know his favourite toy, his crowning achievement, had succeeded beyond what could be immediately expected of it. Like the Exaltation squad, the Grasshopper was being given a field test of unparalleled difficulty, dropped right in the middle of an operation with virtually no record of success to reassure those relying on it. Much like the strategic extranet games Breen liked to play in his spare time, he was essentially playing on legendary difficulty, with very little resources to work with, untested units to deploy and the weight of disastrous failure weighing on his conscience should he fail.

But Breen liked a challenge. He had defeated many of those strategy games, despite the ludicrous odds, and while life certainly wasn't a vid game, it assuredly carved out its own set of obstacles for one to overcome. This operation relied on everything going right...the odds were mathematically disparate. On paper, Exaltation was a team without equal, but the ultimate evidence would be seeing that brought to life. To see the theory made into reality. Seemingly insurmountable tasks excited Breen to no end. Where others forfeited at the very thought of such stress, Breen rushed to meet it head on, just like he was rushing to complete his objective, despite the risks it involved.

Roman, Tikhas and Krato thought they had it hard? Breen was about to hack into the security network of a house that had quite possibly been designed by one of the most brilliant technical minds that the Crusader had fielded in his squad during the war. If the Herald wasn't their enemy, Breen might have seen something of a keen peer in her, their technical genius mutually begging for a chance to bounce ideas between each other. But the Samaritan had emphasized that she was a threat, and the concept of having to put his own erudition to the test by pitting it against hers was a tantalizing prospect. It filled him with anticipation. Who would prevail in this scenario?

Breen was overconfident. Most saw that as a weakness, and Roman occasionally criticized him for it. But the vorcha as a species had been founded on a distinct lack of that hubris, and the invariable deprivation of that self-esteem was what had allowed the many civilized and 'noble' species of the galaxy to roll right over them, first conquering them and then endowing them with a knowledge they had were incapable of leaping on, and introducing them to a society they were not technologically or culturally ready for. Breen could hardly be blamed for embracing the exact opposite, reaching out and holding tightly onto whatever opportunities he could accrue.

Roman lived by many maxims,  _carpe diem_ , or "seize the day" in the modern human dialect, being the one the vorcha apprentice quickened towards the most. He could either remain a product of his upbringing, or rise to the occasion, and surpass his biological and cultural limitations. His people were comfortable living out a tribal, violent and war-like existence: an existence devoid of hope, expression, potential to evolve and freedom. They achieved nothing, excelled at nothing, and would be remembered as nothing. Their species was a footnote in the history books: the "forgotten race", as many Council races had come to know them as. A race fit for the Terminus, others recited. Breen had no fond memories of Heshtok or his wisp of a life there. To hear Roman tell it, he wouldn't have lasted another week in the conditions he had lived in. He had been lifted from desolation, and now he was here, carrying out divine work. He was truly blessed.

The Grasshopper mounted the ridge, exploding into view as it gained air for a split second, the ridge acting as a makeshift ramp, before 'landing' on solid ground again, the mass effect fields keeping it aloft balancing it delicately from ever touching the Rannochian soil. A cloud of dust lagged behind it, trudging in its pursuit like a dream sequence. The impromptu transport hadn't even had time to properly land before the vorcha had already imputted a new set of coordinates, thrusters firing in short bursts to correct its course. Holographic screens, flashing an incandescent tangerine glow at him, practically bombarded him with imput data. Thousands of lines of code, all impossible for an organic to keep track of, went ignored, their importance filed away as the machine automatically sorted them in line of priority, only feeding him the most crucial of information. It was a symbiotic harmony. The nervous system of man-made machinery.

The grasshopper hilted sharply, the turn so abrupt that the side almost grazed the surface, correcting itself after only a few seconds of near-hair length contact. A family of  _bosh'tets_ fled for cover, startled from their burrow by the ferocity of his passing. By the time they turned to ascertain his distance from them, it had only grown greater. They hissed, but otherwise did not pursue him.

Quickly, through the screen infront of him, he watched the house coming into view. Its outline was tinted in a lurid emerald green, his night vision painting the entire landscape infront of him like an impressioned green variant of echo location, but the house managed to stand out from this green world like a well-dressed tycoon in a crowd of impoverished beggars, its tall silhouette a mighty contrast to the untamed wilderness that preceded it. It was two stories tall, and just from its side profile, it had to have a lot of space within its interior decore. Breen knew from that moment he wasn't just eying any dwelling...this was a mansion. A home fit for war heroes.

_Yes, there can be no doubt the Crusader lives here. As if that wasn't already proven._

It was an elementary affair to bring his vehicle down from the high speeds it had dominantly displayed, slowing it to a modest pace. The race of data slowed as his engine thanked him for the decrease in stress, rewarding his kindness with a steady decline in acceleration, its ponderous progression bringing it within final reach of its destination. Just as quiet as its approach had been, the Grasshopper reached a wispy stop, its engine seemingly dying in that instant when in reality it had switched to lower power to conserve energy: the untrained eye would see this as a design flaw, but Breen had deliberately incorporated it into the vehicle's body, ensuring it would always have a reserve of power to use in dire situations. An ad hoc feature, but if the situation commanded it, it would prove to be a boon...or a hindrance. Hopefully the former.

Even as the first vorcha-designed vehicle came to a stop, Breen was finding himself captivated by the gargantuan living space infront of him. Much of its design was anachronistic, feeling incongruous with the 22nd century mindset of 'shiny and sleek = modern.' Most desired big fancy mansions of mirrored steel exteriors, capped kitchen islands and polished tiled floors: the more garish, the more expensive and the more spacious, the better. It was a matter of gluttonous avarice, serving to prop up bragging rights for the lucky buyer who could afford it. But this mansion stood in the face of that: wood finished walls were the norm of this colossal structure, and while it was sure to be spacious, none of the hallmarks of a desirable estate seemed to be displayed here. It was modest, and Breen found himself enjoying the architecture. It was built with loving care and attention to detail.

In short, it was impressive. A show of craftsmanship that far exceeded that of any amateurish builder. And it was something his species lacked the aptitude for. If the vorcha had ever possessed such an affinity for greatness, it had long been lost to history, replaced by a world on the constant brink of societal collapse, if one could even call what they had a society at all. He removed the goggles he wore over his eyes, sharpened teeth gritting so tightly he thought the enamel might peel off. A hiss escaped from the depths of his throat, but any anger he held for his people misfortune was very quickly suppressed. Roman had taught him that his people were a lost cause, and while Breen resented such a claim, he knew that not every situation could be fixed as easily as curing the genophage or creating peace between two recalcitrant enemies. Sometimes, a lost cause was unsalvageable.

Nowadays, he held no sympathy for the plight of the vorcha. They had their chance at glory, but they squandered, taking the opportunities the galaxy offered them and choosing to utilize its many benefits to simply continue their archaic lifestyle of constant war and violence. Roman had liberated Breen from that life, allowed him a fresh start, that was true...but he had been young, impressionable. Children were easy to mold and shape, but adults...their course had been decided long ago. Breen had simply been lucky. And whoever his father and mother had been, they were long gone...Roman was his father now, and he had a job to do.

The past couldn't be saved. The future held promise. And if Breen couldn't save his people, he could at least save the Crusader.

With a delicacy and accuracy left unexpected from a hand whose three fingers seemed to be each a lethal weapon on their own, he reached up and swiped away each of the holographic screens that hovered over his head. With each collapsing application being shut down, their glow diminished, until finally he was left in darkness, having switched off his viewscreen. His left, until now stilled and on reserve, lifted from its dormancy to hit flick the hatch switch, the vorcha quietly observing as the scissor door opened. He unwittingly clicked his tongue, as most vorcha were prone to do, and gnashed his teeth as he emerged from the open door, one leg and then another lifting him from the vehicle to emerge onto solid ground.

Bloodshot eyes surveyed their surroundings, now no longer observed through a night vision filter. His nostrils sniffed, picking up scents of different sources and varying pleasure and displeasure. Vorcha had an extremely heightened sense of smell, and the smell of excrement appeared universal across planets: his nostrils wrinkled, but immediately picked up a different smell. A scent his nostrils reacted positively too, that his brain seemed to respond to with a sense of desire, body filling with a dopamine like satisfaction. Breen knew the smell keenly, as it was one of many scents that Roman had trained him to resist.

The smell of blood. It drove most vorcha mad, because when they were still ignorant creatures driven by primal instincts (or, in other words, modern vorcha), that very smell meant food. His body strove to react, prepping his body for a dance that would inevitably end in the slaughter of an innocent creature and his consumption of its raw flesh for sustenance. But he wasn't a mad animal. He wasn't driven by instinct. He was ostensibly the first truly sentient and intelligent vorcha, and he would not ruin all the progress he made by giving into such an obvious trapping of biological nature.

So he growled, resisting. He ignored the smell, as overpowering as it was, his dilating eyes shrinking and expanding in rapidity as they battled with the conflicting decisions raging inside him. A vortex brewed, civilized composure clashing violently with primal stimuli. The battle frustrated Breen, but it was a battle he fought nonetheless, turning instead his attentions back towards his objective, setting aside basic carnality in favor of completing a far nobler, less selfish task.

Bringing up his right arm, he flicked at his arm to open his omni-tool. Finding the program he was after, he quickly reached forward and flicked the outer switch of his vehicle, sealing it up again before he made his approach towards the house. He crouched, keeping himself low and closer to the ground to ensure his presence went unnoticed. From what he could see with his sharp eyesight, there were no cameras monitoring him, and if there were, they were carefully concealed. Thankfully, the house was believed to be uninhabited for the duration of the wedding, so while any hidden cameras could indeed record him, there would be no one around to watch the footage until after the fact. That, and the lack of any guards in the vicinity, finally convinced Breen to quicken his pace.

Roman had taught him never to be too cocky, so for extra measure, he unholstered the executioner pistol at his hip, holding it in his left hand to free up his right for use of his omni-tool. The weapon was inelegant and inappropriate for the task of stealth, but in close combat, it was rightly feared. It could only fire off a single shot before needing to reload, but that single shot held all the stopping power of an M-300 claymore shell, and would gut any human unfortunate enough to be within a few meters of its effective range. It was a weapon that didn't require successive shots to finish off its enemies, and while it was supremely loud, he didn't expect to use it until shit had hit the fan anyway (if it ever did), so it was a moot point.

Feet creaking on the floorboards as he ascended the stairs onto the rear veranda, He raised his pistol and did a quick sweep of the area. Aside from the sound of partygoers echoing into the night originating from the far side of the dwelling, the rear deck was dead silent, with only the splashing of a couple of Rannochian birds he didn't recognize in an outdoor pool disturbing the peace. A couch that looked like it had been recently slept on lay near the door, and a few chairs were strown around, but with these outliers taken into consideration, he found nothing that alarmed him. Not a soul to call for security, and none of the latter either.

Lowering his weapon, he made long strides across the decking, ignoring the stares of the two birds as they watched a strange, blood-eyed reptilian scamper across the veranda, crimson red pistol in hand. Soon, he had arrived at the furthermost wall, where he was sure to find a junction box for the house's power and, just as he had predicted, he found it. The steel green and unassuming box lay built into the wall, clasped shut by a rudimentary key-code lock that Breen was sure would be rudimentary in bypassing.

The true test of his abilities came next. Although Breen was ever confident in his skills as a hacker, he had to remind himself that this foe was no amateur or ordinary techie. This woman had hacked through the firewalls of some of the most high security facilities, he assumed, so the security of her home was no doubt going to be just as fastidious and impervious. But no system, no matter how sophisticated and well crafted, was uncrackable...and the challenge excited him. Holstering his pistol, he wasted no time in whipping out his omni-tool and jumping head first into his work.

As was appropriately prognosticated, the lock system on the junction box itself had clearly been set up carelessly, as it came apart with the simplest hacking program Breen had: even if it hadn't, his omni-blade would have sufficed to bissect the clenched steel open. Waiting for the rewarding click of a latch being snapped open, he reached up and swung the box door to the side, greeted by a series of smaller boxes, all interconnected by a complete series of wires that were the necessary moving parts that put the security in motion. Now came the difficult part.

The next few minutes were the most difficult in his life. Unleashing his most advanced program onto the unsuspecting firewall, he navigated through the virtual equivalent of a volcanic maze, racing to finish it before the magma consumes it and weary navigator in their entirety. One wrong move and he could trip an alarm, provoke contingency firewalls to erect, or straight up upload counterviruses to overwhelm his own firewalls and kill his omni-tool. Booby-traps lay everywhere, and the very sight of it was intimidating. It was extremely complex, and from what he could see, there was very little imperfections within its core structure. A worthy opponent.

But, ultimately, a few minutes is all it took for Breen to finally beat it. Rather, he had never been required to defeat the entire system: all he had needed to do was gain root access to a specific function within the house's network, rather than eliminate its defenses, and once he found this root access, he simply copied the code to his omni-tool, including the necessary gate codes to disable the firewall blocking access to it, as well as the alarms that would trigger if he had normally just taken the root code and nothing else. In essence, he had secured the ability to open and seal doors across the house at will, all without the internal security grid slamming down and locking him out. Breen hissed in triumph, biting back a snarky smirk at his success, humbling himself before non-existent judges.

It wasn't the same as beating the system itself, even his skills had limits and such a daunting task, while not entirely beyond him, would take days, and was also entirely unnecessary and irrelevant beyond his smaller, less modest need to consistently outperform himself. No, this small, but nonetheless crucial, stepping stone was all that was needed, and yet it would change much more.

So concentrated had he been on his work that all thought of the smell that had threatened to corrupt his senses had evaporated, or at the very least had lost its grip on him. Just as he knew it would.

Wasting no further time on his victory, knowing he could bask in his new bragging rights once the mission was complete, he swiped away from his program and accessed the squad comms.

"All team members, I've cracked the security. I'm in. We're clear for phase two."

Lowering his arm and letting his omni-tool wink out on its own, he allowed himself a deep inhale of fresh air.  _Now all that's left to do...is wait._

He turned, eyes landing on the couch that still had a blanket and pillow resting ontop of it. Rolling his neck, the engineer saw no harm in sitting down, especially given his primary role in the mission had now concluded.

_A rest would be nice_ , he thought to himself, approaching the sofa with an unflappable casuality. The birds still watched him, but made little sound as ruby red eyes fixed them with a forlorn gaze. He was a stranger here, an alien among aliens, and yet he was as comfortable here as he was in his workshop. He kicked back his feet, with one foot ontop of another (another human trait he had picked up), and finally removed his pulsing gaze from the quad-wings as he opened his omni-tool and ran a basic defragging algorithm.

The final pieces were moving into place. He should have felt anxious.

Strangely, he didn't.

* * *

"-and that's why  _I_ think Rannoch is the next latent economic powerhouse. I can provide you the proper fiscal data and statistics if you feel them necessary, but I think you'll find they only support my thesis. I'm planning a symposium on the topic. I think a lot of rising quarian corporate figures will be interested. I actually know of a few already thinking of starting their own companies! Only a couple of years into having their own planet again, and they already want to rejoin the galactic economy! I have to admit, I'm impressed by their will and determination to jump head first back into the thick of it. You'd think the Old Republic never fell!"

Roman had lost track of the exact moment he had been dragged into this maundering discussion, but already it was beginning to drag on his patience. His feigned interest did well at hiding the exasperated disposition that was threatening to slough through the cracks of his fortified expression, dissatisfaction with the man's innate ability to waste one's time leaving Roman grasping for an opportunity to silence him, or at the very least dismiss himself from the conversation. None of his options seemed promising, either exposing him to abject suspicion, or showering him with enough attention to compromise the mission.

So he listened. He nodded his head whenever prompted, and made his contribution short and sweet. He could only hope this turian ran out of conversational spirit before it became a hindrance, whilst silently compelling Krato and Tikhas to be able to hold the fort until he could join and relieve them of the pressure they were holding on their shoulders. They fought an invisible, mentally attritional war, and his reinforcement would be crucial to winning the battle.

When Breen had given the signal that he was ready, Roman had been impressed with the level of spontaneity in which Krato and Tikhas had reacted. Before Breen had even managed to finish his sentence, Tikhas had seemingly translocated himself from one side of the party to the other, such was the progress he had made in converging on the Crusader's position. Krato had similarly searched for Vakarian, reportedly having spotted the turian just a couple minutes later before going radio silent. Roman assumed they had both found their respective targets, which was only confirmed once Roman had finally spotted the Crusader himself, over near a mini-bar and engaged in deep conversation with Tikhas, entirely unaware of the drell's ulterior purpose.

Another glance, at Krato could be seen walking with Garrus, the two exchanging a rigorous back and forth that the batarian appeared to actually be enjoying, based on the smile adorning his lips. To the untrained eye, it would appear their pace was random, but to Roman, it was deliberate: Krato was moving Garrus away from where the Crusader was, in the opposite direction of the house, ensuring that the latter would be isolated from any attempts to assist him. The operative liked what he saw, his operational reflexes finding that he liked what he saw. Everything was falling into place. The final checkmate was crawling into reach.

Roman knew it had been time, right there and then. He had sipped his drink, a light fruity concoction he had been acquired from one of the nearby stands, allowing himself to savor the sweet refreshment sloshing between his teeth before he gulped it down, placing the half empty glass on a table in passing. He had hoped to vanish into the crowd, becoming indistinguishable from the mass of flesh as he approached his oblivious target. Even then, his eyes still snapped to and fro, monitoring for changing circumstances or possible threats.

He met the eyes of a radiantly dressed asari, clad in sparkling verdant, her pearly white teeth gleaming at him in a crooked smile and a sultry gaze that invited him to indulge in carnal pleasure. He turned away, spurning her advances without a second look. He ducked around two human men, both of them ecstatic as they waved their omni-tools through the air, boldly engraved khelish script indicative of the autographs they had excitedly acquired for their personal indulgement, their rodomontade only increasing.

A moment later, he broke through the crowd, the hero of the FAICRU within walking distance. The man would notice the operative in his purview, but would think little of it, entirely blanketed in thoughts that lingered elsewhere. But Roman also saw the abundantly obvious: the leg that the man favoured, leaning on his left more than his right. If it hadn't been for the documents Tikhas had delivered into the Samaritan's hands, they might not have known the story behind that ailment, but as it was, it only made their mission all the more likely to succeed. All the more  _necessary_ to succeed.

He should have watched where he was going. Neglectful in his spatial awareness, he had been unaware of the turian and salarian approaching from his right. Stepping forward, he had unwittingly moved directly into their path, causing them to collide. His attempts to extricate himself led to the turian asking him deeply political questions. Roman knew from that point that he was going nowhere anytime soon: if he was rude and tried to leave forcefully, it would draw unwanted attention to him. Instead, he had dared to hope said conversation would end quickly.

Yet another strategic midjudgement on his part.

If the turian understood decorum, he had not embraced its social quirks. Dragging strangers into unexpected and time-draining philosophical and political colloquies was odd enough, but what was worse was that he had delusions of grandeur to add ontop of that. Roman had hardly heard of this man, yet he seemed to insist he was famous, often self-aggrandizing and embellishing the facts of his, in reality, very menial existence to make himself seem like a crucial member of the Citadel intelligentsia. His 'misunderstood and blacklisted' view of trickle-down economics (a political theory that even human political theorists had dismissed as logical fallacy and political gaslighting by the mid 21st century), coupled with his apparent obsession with 'eliminating the volus strangehold on the galactic market', only aided to inflate his apparent ego, and further test Roman's patience.

Any other time, he might have enjoyed a good political debate. Truth be told, he had been involved in a few of them. But not only did he not agree with a single one of this turian's viewpoints (he couldn't even remember his damn name, although he had never really been listening to begin with), but he was on a damn mission. The turian didn't know that of course, but it didn't make his intrusion any less unwelcome, and the more time he wasted on this cretin, the more time the Crusader had to slip from his invisible grasp and his opportunity would slide away, with the possibility that they'd never have another chance.

As if to check on his objective, his eyes flitted upwards, lusting for the permanence of his objective so that he could relieve himself of any compound stress to perform. Indeed, to what would be a welcome respite to anyone else, he saw Tikhas and the Crusader still locked in thoughtful talk, a smile even adorning his face as he listened to whatever tale the drell conjured up to keep his attention. But he knew that conversation would eventually reach its natural terminus, a fate even Tikhas could not avert, and short of holding the man at gunpoint, he wouldn't be able to hold him much longer. And once the wedding began, which he had no doubt would be soon, he would be entirely surrounded by friends and allies...including the Herald. And by that point...the mission would be impossible. They might have been able to subdue the Herald, but with his entire squad on beck-and-call...it would be a massacre for Exaltation.

This had to happen  _now._ His eyes next searched for Krato and Garrus, but he could not find them in the immediate crowd, so he had to assume the turian was still entirely distracted, although that too would not last long once the matrimonial ceremony was initiated. Roman had to egress quickly, and the major obstacle standing in his way was this loathsome, smarmy self-proclaimed economist feeding him with his nonsense. He didn't have time for this.

_I'm almost tempted to have Cann silence him. No doubt that quarian is watching me right now, having a good laugh at my expense. If we were in private, I might have given the order. But no...too many witnesses. Words will be needed to fix this._

Zoned out as he was, his mental resync with the conversation he had been unwillingly roped into was just as jarring as it had been to be initiated into it, the turian having now apparently transitioned into another topic of equal insignificance, "-own six dogs and nine cats? Beautiful creatures. I didn't understand humanity's obsession with pets before now, but now...now I really do! You know human, I used to think your species was quite odd, but now I see that eccentricity is what makes you so interesting. I'm always learning new things about your species. For instance, did you-"

Not actually listening to a single word of the drivel he was espousing, Roman spent the time drafting a quick exit from his predicament, and quickly formulating a foolproof plan. His eyes augering through the back of the turian's head, seeing right through him almost as if he was an apparition of the human's imagination rather than an actual being of the physical realm, he pretended to be distracted as his eyes blinked suddenly, head looking down as he brought up his omni-tool. Tapping uselessly at a few buttons, pantomiming the action of activating his comms, he spoke suddenly, cutting off the turian mid sentence, "Dobroslav here."

He waited a few moments, emulating the fiction of a response being sent through his earpiece, gauging whether the turian was truly buying it. Thankfully for the sake of Roman's serendipity and state of mind, his stupidity also extended to gullibility, the would-be theorist staring dumbly as he meekly accepted the interruption to his ranting.

"You sure? Understood, will relay to Commander Shepard, sir."

Lowering his omni-tool as he dexterously ended his fictional exchange, he looked up at the turian, trying his best to form the most apologetic expression he could, "My apologies gentlemen, but duty calls. Please, enjoy the festivities."

Unceremoniously, he dismissed himself from the two, giving no further consideration to their thoughts. The turians were left where they belonged: banished from his priorities, hopefully to never return lest they invite his fury. Instead, he smoothed over his stolen uniform and advanced post-haste across the few meters that remained between him and the most important action he would make in his entire life.

The Crusader's back was turned to him and, to his eternal gratitude, Tikhas had held fast, holding the Crusader at bay long enough for his reinforcements to arrive. His drell eyes turned from his social conduit momentarily to appraise the hasteful arrival of Roman, two sets of eyelids blinking in quick succession as they availed their savior. If he exhibited any concern about the possible failure of their mission, he hid it well behind an implacable exterior, arms hanging at his side limply and lips peeled back in a smile that disguised his intentions. So masterful was his guise that Roman momentarily lapsed into his suspicious self once more, wondering if Tikhas' loyalty was as concrete as it seemed.

Then he snapped out of it, gaze disengaging from Tikhas' as he came to a complete stop, snapping to attention with a straightened back and head held high, hand held to his temple in an involuntary salute to his future divine leader.

"Commander Shepard?"

A chuckle met his greeting, the figure in question turning on the spot to face his guest. He held an empty beer bottle in one hand, and held himself far less stringently than Roman. He was slow to return his compatriot's salute, only reciprocating with some noticeable reluctance, "That would be me, unless my clone is still running around. I can see you're part of the security detail. Anything I should know about?"

Steel. Strong and an impenetrable mask: that's what his face was, meeting the Crusader's query head on. Tikhas' faded into the background as Roman focused entirely on meeting the Crusader's eyes, and only a second passed between the question being asked and the operative's reply, his focus on the mission allowing him to overlook the unusual mention of a 'clone' that Shepard had made, the comment already forgotten in his mind, "My CO wants you to know that Vakarian wants to speak with you in your house. Says he's waiting for you already. Made it sound important, enough that my CO threatened to kick my ass if I didn't inform you."

The Crusader raised an eyebrow, smile lessening somewhat. That was never a good sign, and what he said next committed to that fact, "Odd, Garrus never mentioned anything to me. Why would he inform your CO when he can just tell me?"

Roman was no unprepared rookie however. He had prepared for such a question, "Commander Vakarian said he wanted the message relayed by runner, sir. Apparently said omni-tools would draw too much attention if you were being watched. Mentioned something about this Samaritan. You wouldn't happen to know what he meant by that, do you, sir? I mean, the Samaritan is in prison. Heard they nabbed the scumbag."

"Yes..." the Crusader trailed off thoughtfully, his answer seeming like an automatic response to a perilous question. His smile was gone now, replaced by a gaze of otherwordly gloom as his expression hardened and the grip on his bottle noticeably tightened with a creak. It only lasted a moment however, fingers tapping as they released their strangehold in a pale attempt to mask their change in behaviour, while the momentary exposure of mental scrutiny that had slipped through his emotional defenses for Roman to briefly witness receded, the wall shooting back up to shield it from exposure. But Roman had only needed a second to understand what he saw: what he had said had hit a nerve, drawing out a hidden concern from the usually well-compiled man.

But, just like that, he snapped out of his abrupt haze, turning to throw his empty bottle into a nearby bin with a loud clink, "Thank you for relaying this to me, officer."

His response was quick, eager to address. The shielded demand for decisiveness could not be hidden.

Roman saluted again, ever dedicated to the role, "No problem, sir."

The Crusader departed then and there, exchanging a brief apology with Tikhas before trying but failing to hide the limp in his stride as he left. But instead of marching further into the crowd, he moved away...towards the house. The trap had been laid, and the Crusader was now willingly moving into it. Roman allowed himself to loosen then, watching as the old soldier departed the scene hastily, leaving behind the drell he had been speaking to and the dutiful messenger.

They continued to watch him leave, Roman only approaching his drell subordinate once he was out of earshot, "I'll be down here if things go wrong. Krato will move once he sees the Crusader entering the house. Breen has control of the security, so all you need to do is neutralize him."

"It'll get done," Tikhas promised, moving to leave Roman's presence and pursue their retreating quarry. Confidence fueled him, hungering to replace self-doubt with calm assuredness.

Roman's hand shot out, grasping the drell's arm and halting him midstep. Surprised, Tikhas snapped to look at Roman, a question poised to strike from his tongue, but held back as his commander spoke, "You know who your opponent is, so don't get cocky. Limp or no, he's still Commander Shepard, and that deserves your respect. He's likely to resist, which is why you'll need Krato to help overpower him. Work together, or don't bother. Shepard will tear you apart if you try to take him on alone."

Tikhas' eyes narrowed. He didn't like having his abilities questioned, "I was taught by the same people who trained Krios. I can take him."

"I don't care who trained you. We have one shot at this, and only one. Do you want to wind up in a body bag? Because taking on Shepard is suicide. The man's a force of will. If punching a Reaper to death would save him from death, he'd find a way to make it happen. No, the longer you draw out that fight, the more chance he has of winning. Your hope rests with getting that drug into his bloodstream as soon as possible. You either accept that, or you can hand me that injector and I'll do it my damn self."

His voice was ice and brimstone, scatching and cutting deep. Even Tikhas seemed to wither and hesitate underneath it, taken back and shocked by the intensity and concrete blow of the words delivered to him. Roman's grip was tight enough that the drell would be hard pressed to slip out of it, leaving him to soak in the subtle threat that had been conveyed to him.

Taking a moment to build a response his commander would be find acceptable, Tikhas' lips finally moved in formation of a reply, "Very well. We'll bring Shepard down as soon as possible."

Roman nodded, relieving the anvil-esque grasp that had suffused Tikhas' arm. He visibly winced upon its release, but if it had pained him he made no effort to show it, leaving the darkened skin around the site where Roman had gripped him untouched and free to allow his blood its return to proper flow. Roman searched around them, making sure nobody had taken particular notice of the event, before carefully adjusting his collar in imitation of normalcy, "Good. As I said, I'll be in the crowd...watching. If it goes south, I'll move in. But if you do as you're told, that shouldn't be an issue. Should that be the case, we'll rendezvous at the shuttle."

The response Tikhas gave seemed appropriate, and he uttered it with a tone of finality and solemnity that measured well with the weight of the task before him, "Glory to the Crusader."

"Yes," he responded appropriately, turning and moving away in the same motion, adding underneath his breath with a degree of robotic delivery, "Glory to the Crusader."

He molded effortlessly back into the crowd, making sure to avoid the turian theorist he had been trapped into conversing with prior. Meanwhile, a drell, going unnoticed by anyone, shadowed the Crusader back to the interior of his home, joined shortly afterwards by a batarian who had hastily left behind his turian discourser, both of them closing in on their prey.

It was almost chilling, the nature to which they remained blind to the game being played in their very own midst. They were pawns in a game of chess, entirely innocent of its machinations, and useless in stopping the inevitable checkmate that would bring an end to their role on the board.

And Roman mingled amongst them, a player for the winning side.

* * *

He departed the scene with a surge of urgency, hastily abandoning his prior tête-à-tête in favor of eliminating the core of the conference he had been summoned to address. In spite of his limp, he launched into a steady fast walk, beating feet to the highest extent his injury would allow. He could not help the concern that leaked into his posture, his furrowed expression no doubt as clear as the Aegean sea in revealing what lay underneath its murky outer film.

In truth, Shepard had completely forgotten about the cultists that had previously harried his every move. With the fanatical group neither here nor there, and the Samaritan locked up for better or worse, he had seen no reason to let them continue in occupying his priorities. Inbetween preparing for a wedding and eagerly anticipating it, he had no room in his cognitive schedule to appoint the FAICRU any further attention. They were supposed to be a remnant of a brief history, an issue that had ended up resolving itself, albeit with a little help from the man himself.

But now Garrus wanted to speak to him...and if the turian was taking caution as far as refusing anything but face-to-face, private conference...then something was wrong.  _Very_ wrong. Shepard couldn't help the dismay that had furtively regained its foothold in his thoughts, but he could at least hold it back from proliferating into darker, more paranoid illusions. Still, the content of Garrus' intended discourse occupied much of his concerns as he returned to the house, mounting his veranda with an open eagerness to end this deliberation as soon as possible so he could return to what mattered the most to him. He hoped Garrus could escalate some candor in the matter.

But something else bugged him. A gut feeling, nagging him with evergrowing persistence. He had been feeling it before he knew of Garrus' request to talk, and it had only snowballed from that point forward.

The guard, the one who had delivered the message. There was something about him...he couldn't quite pinpoint it, but the way he spoke, composed himself and the way he explained the nature of his message...a fragment of the picture was missing, and it irked him for reasons he could not dissect. He was left with an incomplete picture, and while Shepard considered himself an excellent judge of character, he found this skill lacking in trying to pick apart that nagging remnant that insisted an element of that entire discussion was bizarre and required more scrutiny. Scrutiny he couldn't muster, because he didn't even know  _why_ he felt something was off to begin with.

Reaching the door, he grabbed the door handle, but paused, taking a deep breath. After a moment, he just shook his head with a incredulous light chuckle. He was probably just massively overthinking this. If he couldn't discern something was wrong, that's probably because there wasn't, and it was just a product of his over active imagination, unable to fully grasp the fact that he was finally about to attain the peace he craved for. His mind was busy looking for new enemies, new threats, but one day, it would finally accept that there were none, and that the people he believed had a hidden agenda were simply to be taken at face value.

He repressed his paranoia. With a deep inhale and exhale, he twisted the handle and pushed, stepping into the empty house and quietly closing the door behind him, a loud click and thud echoing through uninhabited building. Uninhabited, except for two people. Himself, and Garrus.

And yet, his manifest arrival had gone entirely unnoticed. Not a sound was heard, aside from the automatic lighting flickering on as it detected his presence. No greeting, no intercept to engage him in quick conversation. Only his light breathing could be heard.

Stepping out of the atrium, he ducked into the lounge room, expecting to find the turian waiting for him: all he found was more absentia, a void of life where he was expecting some to be present. Frowning, he cornered the room, peeking into the dining room in an attempt to espy his friend, but no matter where he searched, he couldn't seem to find the man.

He threw his hands up, letting them slap against the sides of his legs in exasperation, "Garrus? What kind of fucking game are you playing?"

He couldn't have been much louder: he could hear his voice carrying through the segmented rooms of the cavernous structure, every single corner having heard and articulated his words, unable to deny the meaning and content behind them. The silence was so pregnant that he could have whispered and still have been heard from upstairs. A pin could drop and infinitely echo.

A few seconds passed by in solitude...and no response met him. The air was still, only disturbed by Shepard's ever so slight to-and-fro movement.

The floorboards creaked as he adjusted himself, reaching out to brace himself against one of the chairs of the dining room table, steadying himself. His head turned as his eyes scanned, searching for signs of life that he had already discovered to not be within the vicinity. He gulped, licked his lips and regulated his breathing. Tension began an outward conquest across his body, his empty right hand balling into a fist and clenching tightly as he felt his teeth begin to tighten together, jaw gritting stiffly.

By this point, he knew something was definitely wrong. No sign of Garrus could be seen, despite information to the contrary. He knew the turian well enough to know he was anything but tardy, and the messenger had even explicitly mentioned Garrus was already waiting for him inside. So either he was playing a childish game of hide-and-seek, or...he was never here to begin with. And the latter, being far more likely, put him on guard. Suspicion gripped him angrily. Only one possible answer became apparent to him.

He was lured here. There was no denying that, as it was patently obvious. So the real question lay with the reason for why, and who was behind it. Did someone feed that messenger false intel? Was the CO responsible? Or was the CO and the guard simply used as part of a larger scheme to spring a trap? And since Shepard had clearly fallen for said trap...

...who was coming to collect?

This question, and this question alone, was what sent him from being merely cautious to readily alert within moments. Like a predator on the prowl, all of his five senses were braced for full combat, his various organic utilities searching for danger wherever it lurked. Eyes searched, his nose wrinkled, and his ears perked out, searching for miscellaneous sounds he didn't recognize.

He stopped moving...and that's when he heard it. The wooden floor creaked with the weight of approaching footsteps, light and deliberate. They were slight and hard to hear with background noise, but in his stillness, he could descry unwelcome sounds, which included his would-be ambusher, or ambushers. His eyes caught a shadow accompanying it, its lithe shape and small figure accompanied by a larger, bulkier one. From the looks of it, two ambushers had come to claim their prize.

The shadows stopped moving. They watched him carefully, but did not raise any weapons or lunge to attack him: they monitored him closely. If Shepard knew they were there, then they were certainly aware of that.

The game was up. They knew it, he knew it. Time to break the ice.

"You have me," he announced, slowly turning on the spot to face his opponents, wanting a good look at the people who had culminated the effort to construct this daedalian snare. His eyes landed on the smallest and most immediate of his opponents, who he immediately recognized. His eyes widened slightly, surrendering to initial surprise before the realization hit him like a brick, and his wide eyes narrowed into a dawning recognition. He huffed, chuckling lightly in spite of his dire state of affairs, "Let me guess...a plant? Should have known something was off about you, Tikhas. Thane never mentioned you even once."

Tikhas didn't speak for a second, taking a moment to blink, "Don't fret about it. I'm just  _that_ good at my job. No need to feel like you're gullible."

He couldn't help the sarcasm of his response, sardonic reprisal his only defense at the moment, his brain not yet finished calculating exactly what method to utilize in orchestrating his escape, "I'm touched that you feel it necessary to maintain my self-esteem before you kill me."

The larger figure grunted, an incredibly powerful-looking batarian with a missing eye, looking every bit the brute his physique sculpted him to be. Shepard's concern lay not with Tikhas, as his cybernetics would easily allow him to keep up with the drell's speed, at least for a short time. But while he was strong, batarians were known to be physically stronger than humans, and this batarian looked like a freak of nature: the muscle on the juggernaut looked capable of bending steel, and he knew surviving would entirely rely on him stopping the batarian from overpowering him. He addressed Shepard directly, ignoring his drell colleague.

"If I were you, I'd be finding our weaknesses, looking for escape routes. Don't bother on the latter: our engineer sealed the doors the moment you came in. There's no way out. You can't call for help either, we've blocked that too. Nobody knows you're here. It's just you, and us. And with the condition you have, I don't think you'll be putting up much of a fight. So if I were you, I'd suggest coming with us quietly. We don't want to hurt you."

_So they're not here to kill me...but if not that, then what? Who the hell are these people? And how the actual fuck do they know about my injury?_

The batarian was right: and if he was telling the truth, he truly was on his own. Everybody would think he was still at the party, and by the time anyone realized he was missing, they'd likely overwhelm him and complete whatever they intended to do with him. What also concerned him was the amount of knowledge these people had about him: the security of his house, the injury in his leg...all of this wasn't public knowledge. They knew more than they should have, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

_Time to do the cliche: "hey villains, want to tell me your plan so I can fucking stomp it to death?"_

"If you're not here to hurt me, then what do you want? Who sent you? Is Cerberus behind this? I'd tell you to move the fuck on, but I guess you people never really did forgive me for ruining your plans," Shepard spat, buying time with words as he continued to figure out a plan. The batarian was smart, he would give him that, so he'd have to make his plan a little more subtle if he wanted to get out of this: brute-forcing his way through this wasn't an option. Luckily, they didn't seem armed, "Look, I've got a lot of fucking enemies. I stopped trying to keep count of them a long time ago. So if you could hurry up to the part where you monologue about your grand plan, that'd be great, because I've got a wedding to attend and I don't appreciate party-crashers."

Tikhas just shook his head, an object held lightly in one hand, discretely hidden from plain sight, "You wouldn't understand. Not yet. That's why we have to rescue you. To help you return to the light."

"Return to...the light?" he scrunched up his eyes, confusion exuded from in his waves. The statement was so ludicrous and unexpected that he was momentarily taken offguard, "Do you realize how stupid you sound? What kind of gibberish is that? And what exactly would you be rescuing me from? A life of happiness? Look, cut the bullshit. If this is some scheme to manipulate me into coming quietly, I think you'll have to try a little harder."

"We're going to save you from yourself," the batarian added. It was now that him and his drell friend were moving to opposite sides of the room, spreading out. Shepard watched them carefully, backed up against the table as he was. He knew they were going to attempt an attack on his sides, and his memories momentarily flashed to the ambush Randall Ezno and Kai Leng had launched on him on Omega back during the war, and how he had barely made it out of alive. If he could beat them back, he could win this, "You're lost, confused, misled. The Herald has misguided you, and her poison has seeped into your mind."

"The Samaritan has a plan for you, my Lord," Tikhas declared, now brandishing the object in his hand like a weapon. That confirmed to Shepard its nature, and he prepared to prioritize the drell when they finally attacked, "A plan for us all. You are the Crusader, and you are needed. You don't see that now, but once the Herald's poison has been swept from your mind, you will see clearly again. You'll return to the light. And  _we_  will rescue you."

His teeth gritted harshly, although the confirmation of who they were sent chills down their spine. His eyes widened, turning to view both of them with disbelief, "You're lying. The Samaritan is in prison. Your group disbanded.  _I_ ordered you to disband."

"A trick," the drell answered, "Major Kyle was never the Samaritan. Even we don't know his true identity. Our dissolution was for public consumption...so they'd never see us coming. As you can see, it worked beautifully. And so far, our rescue mission is going off with a hitch too. The Samaritan serves you, my Lord, as do we. You only need to see that. We will get you the help you need."

Anger filled him, threatening to spill out, "I don't want your fucking help. You've murdered innocent people. Good people. And if killing Balak was supposed to impress me, it didn't: you've put Khar'Shan on the brink of civil war, funded a group that used that money to detonate a bloody bomb that killed thousands more. You're all insane, and there is no way in hell I plan on leaving this planet with you, so you're just going to have to try your best to kill me."

"We've planned for that too," the batarian declared, bracing himself to charge. Shepard had readied himself for just such a move, but hadn't telegraphed it. He knew the time for talk was ending quickly, "You will not be harmed this day, Crusader. We will fix you. Heal you. You will be reborn."

Shepard's hands, resting behind his back, reached back quietly and grabbed a hold of a nearby bowl, grasping the porcelain quietly without being noticed. It was here that it became apparent to him what the object Tikhas was holding actually was: it wasn't a weapon, it was an injector. If they couldn't take him willingly...they would take his unconscious body.

Like  _that_ was going to fucking happen.

"You carve the letter 'C' into people's foreheads when you murder them," he spat, pulling the bowl towards him. Their move was imminent, and the time for conversation was over. He had to end this, and quickly. He fixed the batarian was a gaze of pure hatred, "I'll be sure to carve 'fuck you' into yours when I ship you back to the Samaritan in a  _vacuum-sealed box_."

They both knew they were getting nowhere. So they made their move. But as the batarian shot forward, ready to tackle him to the ground, Shepard spun, bringing the bowl in his hand spinning with him. He slammed the object down into the oncoming batarian's head, timing the impact perfectly so that his attacker's own momentum aided in carrying him into the blow. The intricately-painted artifact broke apart instantly, shards of china splintering and fragmenting as they slashed and cut at the bulky beast of a man. Blood dribbled from the numerous cuts, while the concussive force, amplified by his cybernetics powering the attack, sent him crashing into the table thunderously, dazed and baffled.

And temporarily out of the fight.

With the rest of the bowl clattering to the floor in ruins, Shepard turned with the only remaining piece of the obliterated crucible that remained in his grip, now sharpened enough to be a proper blunt-force weapon. With all speed he could muster, his reflexes powered him into pivoting on the spot, dropping to a knee as he felt Tikhas' arm arc through the air, the injector harmlessly passing overhead and missing his target by inches: his neck.

His midriff exposed, he slammed the shard straight into Tikhas' chest, but the drell was quick. He parried the blow, slapping it aside effortlessly before dancing back, out of Shepard's reach and denying him the chance to end the battle quickly. Drell were small and physically weaker than humans, meaning they always had to rely on their superior reflexes and agility, and Tikhas knew Shepard would rip him apart if he was ever allowed to pin him down.

Standing up, Shepard retreated hastily into the living room as his batarian assailant recovered and came to his feet, shaking off his concussion much faster than the N7 had anticipated. He swept off the shards of broken wood and china that remained in his lap, wilfully ignoring the nugatory cuts that now lined his cheeks and temple, leaking trivial amounts of blood in modest trickles. He bared his sharpened teeth, remaining three-eyes squinting as they focused on him. Meanwhile, Tikhas circled the human like a vulture searching for an opportunity to feast on its victim, injector always held in the hand that was furtherest from Shepard's reach.

The batarian adopted a combat stance, and Tikhas eyed him readily. Shepard understood the dance of war, and mimicked it in kind, hands reaching up in a makeshift shield of his face, the fragment of bowl poised to continue the attack. He watched them simultaneously making their moves, probing his defenses. He was right back in his element, the first time he had been since the war ended, and adrenaline pumped through him like a drug, fueling his concurrent high and strenghtening his resolve like a biological PCP.

Battle was joined again, moments later.

* * *

"Excuse me," Krato excused him suddenly, reaching out a hand to shake his, "I just realized there is someone I must speak to."

Garrus accepted the hand, managing a smile, "Of course. I've got to check in with security anyway."

The batarian hardly seemed to hear him. Finished shaking his head, he departed with a startling amount of haste, vanishing into the crowd. Garrus frowned as he watched him leave, now left entirely alone with his drink in hand. He raised it back to his mouth, accepting a brief sip before lowering the glass again. Having lost sight of the batarian, he opened his omni-tool and checked the time, finding it was nearly time for the wedding. The announcement would be made soon for people to assemble, so if he wanted to talk with Shepard before the wedding began, he'd better do it now.

_Never been a best man before, let alone for a human,_ he mused.  _Wouldn't mind some tips._

Making his way through the crowd, only peripherally paying attention to the crowd that flowed around him, he opened his omni-tool and searched through his contacts, quickly finding Shepard's. Moments before he found it however, he felt someone brush past him. He spilled his drink, the alcoholic beverage (only one standard drink of course, have to keep sober for his role!) splashing over his suit. He growled, annoyed as a hand whipped against his shirt to try and dampen the liquid trailing there, head shooting up to finding the person responsible.

An Alliance soldier, clad in his blue-and-black uniform as he retreated from the scene, apparently unaware of the grief he had caused in his passing. Garrus considered catching up to give the man a piece of his mind but decided against it, not wanting to start a fight, especially not over such a trifle. Letting him go, he instead turned his attentions to continuing to wipe the rest of the drink away, hating the cool, wet feeling that was already beginning to seep through the clothing and chill the skin underneath uncomfortably.

In this brief time, he had time to look around. By mere happenstance, his gaze landed on the house, the anchor of his focus drawing him towards it for an unknown purpose, drawn by some procrasinate trapping. His omni-tool went forgotten, Shepard's contact readied and awaiting activation via comm link.

His detective's eye, maybe. He was prone to focus on elements of his surroundings that others would pass over as innocuous ambience. It was part of why detectives were so useful, and why it had come in useful on many occasions in which his investigatory skills had been needed to win the day. Many criminals, no matter how meticulous or careful, had been defeated by those senses alone, and they were second only to gut instinct in their uncanny ability to piece together what conventional evidence and logic could not.

Which is why he was able to notice something as unimportant as the house's door being closed, caught just moments after someone had passed through it.

That was curious. Why would Shepard need to return to the house? It couldn't be Tali, because she was busy getting ready, and none of the others would access Shepard's house without his permission or a reason, so that really only left Shepard. Perhaps it was those pre-wedding jitters again?

Whatever the case, he thought it was best if he checked up on the man, just to be sure. Usually, when Shepard said he 'didn't want to be disturbed', that usually meant he was going to be okay with either Tali or Garrus doing just that. They were his closest confidants, and talking with them for the purposes of venting usually helped the man a great deal, in his experience. Besides, Garrus needed to talk with him anyway.

Extricating himself from the crowd and reaching the front door, the turian raised his hand to knock on the door, ready to announce his presence to Shepard, when a loud crash could be heard. It shook him from his casual demeanour, immediately putting him on guard as he froze in place, listening for further continuances of the sound. Another sound was heard, he sound of grunting and heavy breathing, and it was a sound Garrus recognized well.

No doubt left in his mind, Garrus decided to make his entrance a bit more explosive. In one, simultaneous motion, his hand reached down and whipped out his pistol, the other grabbing the door knob and twisting it. The door did not yield as he had expected however, and he was puzzled to find that it had somehow been sealed, even though the security system was supposed to handle that. With no way through the door, Garrus turned to check the windows, and found that the blast shutters hadn't been deployed.

While Shepard didn't want to damage his friend's home based on a hunch and some noise, he also felt that if Shepard's life was potentially in danger, it was his duty to aid his friend, and if that required him to blow up the whole damn house, he'd do it in a heartbeat. Backing away from the nearest bulletproof glass window, he raised his omni-tool, shutting down the contacts app and switching it to battle mode, quickly bringing up the experimental program that Zaeed and himself had developed.

His arm raised, he activated the program.

In a blast of supersonic sound, the screech enough to leave even Garrus' ears ringing, an almost invisible wave of pressure was emitted from his omni-tool, exerting enormous waves of force that slammed straight into the reinforced glass. It vibrated violently, the forces increasing as they began to ripple up the glass, only being further augmented by further impacts. Within seconds later, the pressure was too much, and the window violently exploded, thousands of chips of brittle frosted reflection being dispersed inwards. Protected by the force of the blast, Garrus raised his pistol and charged in, vaulting over the frame and into the living room, glass scrunching beneath his boots.

The sight he was met with left him shocked, surprise dotting his expression even as he charged through steaming piles of broken glass, his right eye lined down the sight of his pistol and ready to kill.

He saw Krato, the batarian he had been speaking with before, crouched on the ground with numerous scrapes and cuts lining his face, the blood that dripped down his face still fresh. Beside him was a drell, who he also recognized as the same one he had spotted Shepard talking to earlier. Both of them were together beside someone else, the third subject's body lying across the ground and twitching erratically. It took only moments for Garrus to recognize the twitching body, their eyes wide open and arms and legs jerking in unpredictable directions.

Worry for his friend turned into rage. His suspicions were correct: the dining room table was a ruin, and bits of porcelain lay intermingled with all the broken wood fragments as evidence that a battle had occurred, however brief. In the drell's hand, Garrus immediately spied what looked like an injector, its contents clearly filled to the brim with a substance the turian didn't even want to identify. The intent was clear, and as the evidence stood, and twitched, before him...only rage consumed him.

They had done this. Whoever they were, they had hurt his friend, or at least planned to do so, but he would be putting an end to that.

"Drop it!" he barked, pistol turning to the drell with the injector. The drell in question still did not drop the injector however, the object remaining in his hand, unmoved. The turian snarled, repeating his command with added fury, "You, drell, you  _heard_ me! Drop that injector or I'll save us both the paperwork and drop you right now."

The drell still did not comply, eying him with a strange amount of calm he wasn't expecting. Armed with a pistol while they were armed with nothing, both of them should have been panicking, their game now up and the odds strongly out of favor with them. But they didn't say a word, flinch or make any move at all. None of his demands met any compliance, and they remained where they stood, collected and silent. Garrus momentarily considered that they were deafened by the explosion, and simply couldn't hear him, but with a gun pointed at them and an angry turian behind it, his intent should have been clear.

It didn't occur to him what was actually happening until a moment later. They weren't looking at him.

They were looking  _behind_ him.

He only had enough time to see the shadow of a figure behind him before a swish of air and a heavy impact slammed into the back of his head. The brute force blow knocked all the fight out of him instantly, pistol releasing from his grip to clatter to the ground before his knees buckled and his body shut down all at once. Unconsciousness raced up to claim him, and the last thing he saw was his friend's seizure coming to a close, and an injector being gently brought up to his neck.

Then his head hit the ground, and the rest was darkness.

* * *

_**A/N:** _

_**I take a month hiatus, and come back at you with a cliffhanger like this? You must really hate me now, eh? You wanted action: I give it to you!** _

_**About that hiatus...yeah, I should have given you guys more warning. I was about halfway through this chapter when I ran out of steam, and decided to take a break. One week turned into another, and before I knew it, I had taken all of October off from writing. Still, I think you can all agree the end result isn't much to complain about, and now that I have a clear mind, we can get back to business! Yes, I left you with a cliffhanger, but hey...at least things are getting interesting now, yes?** _

_**One note before I wrap this chapter now: a shout-out. If you guys have not read Cenotaph II: Monolith by Rob Sears by now, get on it. Its a sequel to Cenotaph for the Morrow (which he has subsequently rebranded to reflect the new intent for the story), and it follows the mission of Shepard/Tali's daughter as she fights PMCs. Lots of action, great dialogue and characters, and excellent plotting and storyline. If you're not reading it, you're missing out. He's not getting anywhere near enough reviews right now, so I strongly urge you all to go give him your support. He's a criminally underrated writer, and he deserves your attention. I promise you won't be disappointed. He's a seriously talented writer.** _

_**Well, until next time,** _

_**Keelah Se'lai, troopers!** _

_**As for music suggestions:** _

**The Party Begins: "Party Music" by Sascha Dikiciyan and Cris Velasco from the game** _ **Mass Effect 2**_.

**Roman Exits The Shuttle/Breen Moves Into Position: "Hotel Regina" by John Powell from the film** _ **The Bourne Identity**_.

**House Fight: "Warehouse Stomping" by Joseph Trapanese, Aria Prayogi & Fajar Yuskemal from the film ** _ **The Raid 2**_.


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